TIIKV  CAN'T  GET  OUT."    See  P.  IS. 


REAL  FOLKS. 


BY 

MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  \VE  GIRLS,"  "A  SUMMER  IN  LESLIE  GOLDTHVVAITE'S  LIFE," 
"FAITH  GARTHEY'S  GIRLHOOD,"  ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  R.  OS  GOOD  AND   COMPANY, 

LATB  TICKXOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSQOOD,  &  Co. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTTPED   AND   PRINTED   BY 

H.  0.  HOUOHTOX  AXD  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQI 

THIS  WAT,  AKD  THAT 1 

n. 

LUCLARIOX 11 

III. 

BY  STORY-RAIL  :   TWENTY-SIX  YEARS  AX  HOUR  ....      25 

IV. 
AFTERWARDS  is  A  LONG  TIME 40 

V. 

HOW    THE    NEWS    CAME    TO    HOMESWORTH 45 

VI. 
AND 65 

vn. 

WAKING  UP 70 

vm. 

EAVESDROPPING  IN  ASPEN  STREET         ......       78 

IX. 
HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION 92 

X. 

COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO      ...  ,     103 


IV  CONTENTS. 

XI. 

PAGE 

MOKE  WITCH-WORK 122 

xn. 

CRUMBS .    181 

XIII. 
PIECES  OF  WORLDS 147 

XIV. 
"SESAME;  AND  LILIES"  .........    167 

XV. 
WITH  ALL  ONE'S  MIGHT 184 

XVI. 
SWARMING 195 

XVII. 
QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS 205 

xvm. 

ALL  AT  ONCE .    230 

XIX. 
INSIDE        ••«••......,    244 

XX. 

NEIGHBORS  AND  NEXT  OF  KIN  ORS 


XXI. 
THE  HORSESHOE 285 

XXII. 
MORNING  GLORIES §    801 


REAL  FOLKS. 
I. 

THIS    WAY,    AND    THAT. 

THE  parlor  blinds  were  shut,  and  all  the  windows  of 
the  third-story  rooms  were  shaded;  but  the  pantry- 
window,  looking  out  on  a  long  low  shed,  such  as  city 
houses  have  to  keep  their  wood  in  and  to  dry  their  clothes 
upon,  was  open  ;  and  out  at  this  window  had  come  two 
little  girls,  with  quiet  steps  and  hushed  voices,  and  carried 
their  books  and  crickets  to  the  very  further  end,  establish- 
ing themselves  there,  where  the  shade  of  a  tall,  round  fir 
tree,  planted  at  the  foot  of  the  yard  below,  fell  across  the 
building  of  a  morning. 

"  It  was  prettier  down  on  the  bricks,"  Luclarion  had 
told  them.  But  they  thought  otherwise. 

"  Luclarion  doesn't  know,"  said  Frank.  "  People  don't 
know  things,  I  think.  I  wonder  why,  when  they've  got 
old,  and  ought  to  ?  It's  like  the  sea-shore  here,  I  guess  ; 
only  the  stones  are  all  stuck  down,  and  you  mustn't  pick 
up  the  loose  ones  either." 

Frank  touched  lightly,  as  she  spoke,  the  white  and 
black  and  gray  bits  of  gravel  that  covered  the  flat  roof. 

"  And  it  smells  —  like  the  pine  forests  !  " 

The  sun  was  hot  and  bright  upon  the  fir  branches  and 
along  the  tar-cemented  roof. 


2  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  How  do  you  know  about  sea-shores  and  pine  forests?  " 
asked  Laura,  with -crushing  common  sense. 

"I  don't  know ;  but  I  do,"  said  Frank. 

"  You  don't  know  anything  but  stories  and  pictures  ; 
and  one  tree,  and  a  little  gravel,  all  stuck  down  tight." 

"  I'm  glad  I've  got  one  tree.  And  the  rest  of  it,  — 
why  listen !  It's  in  the  word,  Laura.  Forest.  Doesn't 
that  sound  like  thousands  of  them,  all  fresh  and  rustling  ? 
And  Ellen  went  to  the  sea-shore,  in  that  book ;  and  picked 
up  pebbles ;  and  the  sea  came  up  to  her  feet,  just  as 
the  air  comes  up  here,  and  you  can't  get  any  farther,"  — 
said  Frank,  walking  to  the  very  edge  and  putting  one  foot 
out  over,  while  the  wind  blew  in  her  face  up  the  long 
opening  between  rows  of  brick  houses  of  which  theirs  was 
in  the  midst  upon  one  side. 

"  A  great  sea !  "  exclaimed  Laura,  contemptuously. 
"  With  all  those  other  wood-sheds  right  out  in  it,  all  the 
way  down  !  " 

"  Well,  there's  another  side  to  the  sea ;  and  capes,  and 
islands,"  answered  Frank,  turning  back.  "  Besides,  I  don't 
pretend  it  is;  I  only  think  it  seems  a  little  bit  like  it.  I'm 
often  put  in  mind  of  things.  I  don't  know  why." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is  like,"  said  Laura.  "  It's  like  the 
gallery  at  church,  where  the  singers  stand  up  in  a  row, 
and  look  down,  and  all  the  people  look  up  at  them.  I  like 
high  places.  I  like  Cecilia,  in  the  *  Bracelets,'  sitting  at 
the  top,  behind,  when  her  name  was  called  out  for  the 
prize  ;  and  *  they  all  made  way,  and  she  was  on  the  floor 
in  an  instant.'  I  should  like  to  have  been  Cecilia!  " 

"  Leonora  was  a  great  deal  the  best." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  she  don't  stand  out." 

"  Laura !  You're  just  like  the  Pharisees !  You're 
always  wishing  for  long  clothes  and  high  seats !  " 


THIS   WAY,    AND   THAT.  3 

"  There  ain't  any  Pharisees,  nowadays,"  said  Laura, 
securely.  After  which,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  more 
to  be  insisted. 

Mrs.  Lake,  the  housekeeper,  came  to  the  middle  upper 
window,  and  moved  the  blind  a  little.  Frank  and  Laura 
were  behind  the  fir.  They  saw  her  through  the  branches. 
She,  through  the  farther  thickness  of  the  tree,  did  not 
notice  them. 

"  That  was  good,"  said  Laura.  "  She  would  have  beck- 
oned us  in.  I  hate  that  forefinger  of  hers  ;  it's  always 
hushing  or  beckoning.  It's  only  two  inches  long.  What 
makes  us  have  to  mind  it  so  ?  " 

"  She  puts  it  all  into  those  two  inches,"  answered  Frank. 
"  All  the  must  there  is  in  the  house.  And  then  you've 
got  to." 

"  I  wouldn't  —  if  father  wasn't  sick." 

"Laura,"  said  Frank,  gravely,  "I  don't  believe  father 
is  going  to  get  well.  What  do  you  suppose  they're  letting 
us  stay  at  home  from  school  for?  " 

"  O,  that,"  said  Laura,  "  was  because  Mrs.  Lake  didn't 
have  time  to  sew  the  sleeves  into  your  brown  dress." 

"  I  could  have  worn  my  gingham,  Laura.  Wfiat  if  he 
should  die  pretty  soon  ?  I  heard  her  tell  Luclarion  that 
there  must  be  a  change  before  long.  They  talk  in  little 
bits,  Laura,  and  they  say  it  solemn." 

The  children  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  Frank  sat 
looking  through  the  fir-tree  at  the  far-off  flecks  of  blue. 

Mr.  Shiere  had  been  ill  a  long  time.  They  could  hardly 
think,  now,  what  it  would  seem  again  not  to  have  a  sick 
father  ;  and  they  had  had  no  mother  for  several  years, « — 
many  out  of  their  short  remembrance  of  life.  Mrs.  Lake 
had  kept  the  house,  and  mended  their  clothes,  and  held  up 
her  forefinger  at  them.  Even  when  Mr.  Shiere  was  well, 


4  REAL    FOLKS. 

he  had  been  a  reserved  man,  much  absorbed  in  business  ; 
since  his  wife's  death,  he  had  been  a  very  sad  man.  He 
loved  his  children,  but  he  was  very  little  with  them.  Frank 
and  Laura  could  not  feel  the  shock  and  loss  that  children 
feel  when  death  comes  and  robs  them  suddenly  of  a  close 
companionship. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  would  happen  then  ?  "  asked 
Laura,  after  awhile.  "  We  shouldn't  be  anybody's  chil- 
dren." 

"  Yes,  we  should,"  said  Frank ;  "  we  should  be  God's." 

"  Everybody  else  is  that,  —  besides"  said  Laura. 

"  We  shall  have  black  silk  pantalets  again,  I  suppose,"  — 
she  began,  afresh,  looking  down  at  her  white  ones  with 
double  crimped  ruffles,  —  "and  Mrs.  Gibbs  will  come  in 
and  help,  and  we  shall  have  to  pipe  and  overcast." 

"  O,  Laura,  how  nice  it  was  ever  so  long  ago  ! "  cried 
Frank,  suddenly,  never  heeding  the  pantalets,  "  when 
mother  sent  us  out  to  ask  company  to  tea,  —  that  pleasant 
Saturday,  you  know,  —  and  made  lace  pelerines  for  our 
dolls  while  we  were  gone  !  It^s  horrid,  when  other  girls 
have  mothers,  only  to  have  a  housekeeper  !  And  pretty 
soon  we*  sha'n't  have  anything,  only  a  little  corner,  away 
back,  that  we  can't  hardly  recollect." 

"  They'll  do  something  with  us  ;  they  always  do,"  said 
Laura,  composedly. 

The  children  of  this  world,  even  as  children,  are  wisest 
in  their  generation.  Frank  believed  they  would  be  God's 
children  ;  she  could  not  see  exactly  what  was  to  come  of 
that,  though,  practically.  Laura  knew  that  people  always 
did  something ;  something  would  be  sure  to  be  done  with 
them.  She  was  not  frightened ;  she  was  even  a  little 
curious. 

A  head  came  up  at  the  corner  of  the  shed  behind  them ; 


THIS   WAY,    AND   THAT.  5 

a  pair  of  shoulders,  —  high,  square,  turned  forward  ;  a 
pair  of  arms,  long  thence  to  the  elbows,  as  they  say 
women's  are  who  might  be  good  nurses  of  children ;  the 
hands  held  on  to  the  sides  of  the  steep  steps  that  led  up 
from  the  bricked  yard.  The  young  woman's  face  was 
thin  and  strong ;  two  great,  clear,  hazel  eyes  looked 
straight  out,  like  arrow  shots ;  it  was  a  clear,  undeviating 
glance  ;  it  never  wandered,  or  searched,  or  wavered,  any 
more  than  a  sunbeam  ;  it  struck  full  upon  whatever  was 
there  ;  it  struck  through  many  things  that  were  transpar- 
ent to  their  quality.  She  had  square,  white,  strong  teeth, 
that  set  together  like  the  faces  of  a  die ;  they  showed 
easily  when  she  spoke,  but  the  lips  closed  over  them  abso- 
lutely and  firmly.  Yet  they  were  pleasant  lips,  and  had  a 
smile  in  them  that  never  went  quite  out ;  it  lay  in  all  the 
muscles  of  the  mouth  and  chin ;  it  lay  behind,  in  the  liv- 
ing spirit  that  had  moulded  to  itself  the  muscles. 

This  was  Luclarion. 

"  Your  Aunt  Old  ways  and  Mrs.  Oferr  have  come. 
Hurry  in  !  " 

Now  Mrs.  Oldways  was  only  an  uncle's  wife ;  Mrs. 
Oferr  was  their  father's  sister.  But  Mrs.  Oferr  was  a 
rich  woman  who  lived  in  New  York,  and  who  came  on 
grand  and  potent,  with  a  scarf  or  a  pair  of  shoe-bows  for 
each  of  the  children  in  her  big  trunk,  and  a  hundred  and 
one  suggestions  for  their  ordering  and  behavior  at  her 
tongue's  end,  once  a  year.  Mrs.  Oldways  lived  up  in  the 
country,  and  was  "  aunt "  to  half  the  neighborhood  at 
home,  and  turned  into  an  aunt  instantly,  wherever  she 
went  and  found  children.  If  there  were  no  children,  per- 
haps older  folks  did  not  call  her  by  the  name,  but  they  felt 
the  special  human  kinship  that  is  of  no  blood  or  law,  but  is 
next  to  motherhood  in  the  spirit. 


6  REAL   POLKS. 

Mrs.  Oferr  found  the  open  pantry  window,  before  the 
children  had  got  in. 

"  Out  there  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  in  the  eyes  of  all  the 
neighbors  in  the  circumstances  of  the  family !  Who  does, 
or  don't  look  after  you  ?  " 

"  Hearts'-sake  ! "  came  up  the  pleasant  tones  of  Mrs. 
Oldways  from  behind,  "  how  can  they  help  it  ?  There 
isn't  any  other  out-doors.  If  they  were  down  at  Homes- 
worth  now,  there'd  be  the  lilac  garden  and  the  old  chest- 
nuts, and  the  seat  under  the  wall.  Poor  little  souls  !  "  she 
added,  pitifully,  as  she  lifted  them  in,  and  kissed  them. 
"It's  well  they  can  take  any  comfort.  Let  'em  have  all 
there  is." 

Mrs.  Oferr  drew  the  blinds,  and  closed  the  window. 

Frank  and  Laura  remembered  the  strangeness  of  that 
day  all  their  lives.  How  they  sat,  shy  and  silent,  while 
Luclarion  brought  in  cake  and  wine  ;  how  Mrs.  Oferr  sat 
in  the  large  morocco  easy-chair  and  took  some  ;  and  Mrs. 
Oldways  lifted  Laura,  great  girl  as  she  was,  into  her  lap 
first,  and  broke  a  slice  for  her  ;  how  Mrs.  Oldways  went 
up-stairs  to  Mrs.  Lake,  and  then  down  into  the  kitchen  to 
do  something  that  was  needed ;  and  Mrs.  Oferr,  after  she 
had  visited  her  brother,  lay  down  in  the  spare  chamber  for 
a  nap,  tired  with  her  long  journey  from  New  York, 
though  it  had  been  by  boat  and  cars,  while  there  was  a 
long  staging  from  Homesworth  down  to  Nashua,  on  Mrs. 
Oldways'  route.  Mrs.  Oldways,  however,  was  "  used," 
she  said,  "  to  stepping  round."  It  was  the  sitting  that  had 
tired  her. 

How  they  were  told  not  to  go  out  any  more,  or  to  run 
up  and  down-stairs ;  and  how  they  sat  in  the  front  win- 
dows, looking  out  through  the  green  slats  at  so  much  of 
the  street  world  as  they  could  see  in  strips ;  how  they  ob- 


THIS   WAY,   AND  THAT.  7 

tained  surreptitious  bits  of  bread  from  dinner,  and  opened 
a  bit  of  the  sash,  and  shoved  out  crumbs  under  the  blinds 
for  the  pigeons  that  flew  down  upon  the  sidewalk ;  how 
they  wondered  what  kind  of  a  day  it  was  in  other  houses, 
where  there  were  not  circumstances  in  the  family,  where 
children  played,  and  fathers  were  not  ill,  but  came  and 
went  to  and  from  their  stores ;  and  where  two  aunts  had 
not  come,  both  at  once,  from  great  ways  off,  to  wait  for 
something  strange  and  awful  that  was  likely  to  befall. 

When  they  were  taken  in,  at  bedtime,  to  kiss  their  father 
and  say  good-night,  there  was  something  portentous  in  the 
stillness  there  ;  in  the  look  of  the  sick  man,  raised  high 
against  the  pillows,  and  turning  his  eyes  wistfully  toward 
them,  with  no  slightest  movement  of  the  head ;  in  the 
waiting  aspect  of  all  things,  —  the  appearance  as  of  every- 
body being  to  sit  up  all  night  except  themselves. 

Edward  Shiere  brought  his  children  close  to  him  with 
the  magnetism  of  that  look  ;  they  bent  down  to  receive  his 
kiss  and  his  good-night,  so  long  and  solemn.  He  had  not 
been  in  the  way  of  talking  to  them  about  religion  in  his 
life.  He  had  only  insisted  on  their  truth  and  obedience  ; 
that  was  the  beginning  of  all  religion.  Now  it  was  given 
him  in  the  hour  of  his  death  what  he  should  speak ;  and 
because  he  had  never  said  many  such  words  to  them  be- 
fore, they  fell  like  the  very  touch  of  the  Holy  Ghost  upon 
their  young  spirits  now,  — 

"Love  God,  and  keep  His  commandments.  Good- 
by." 

In  the  morning,  when  they  woke,  Mrs.  Lake  was  in  their 
room,  talking  in  a  low  voice  with  Mrs.  Oferr,  who  stood 
by  an  open  bureau.  They  heard  Luclarion  dusting  down 
the  stairs. 

Who  was  taking  care  of  their  father  ? 


8  REAL   FOLKS. 

They  did  not  ask.  In  the  night,  he  had  been  taken 
care  of.  It  was  morning  with  him,  now,  also. 

Mrs.  Lake  and  Mrs.  Oferr  were  calculating,  —  about 
black  pantalets,  and  other  things. 

This  story  is  not  with  the  details  of  their  early  orphan 
life.  When  Edward  Shiere  was  buried  came  family  con- 
sultations. The  two  aunts  were  the  nearest  friends.  No- 
body thought  of  Mr.  Titus  Oldways.  He  never  was 
counted.  He  was  Mrs.  Shiere's  uncle,  —  Aunt  Oldways' 
uncle-in-law,  therefore,  and  grand-uncle  to  these  children. 
But  Titus  Oldways  never  took  up  any  family  responsibili- 
ties ;  he  had  been  shy  of  them  all  his  single,  solitary  life. 
He  seemed  to  think  he  could  not  drop  them  as  he  could 
other  things,  if  he  did  not  find  them  satisfactory.  Besides, 
what  would  he  know  about  two  young  girls  ? 

He  saw  the  death  in  the  paper,  and  came  to  the  funeral ; 
then  he  went  away  again  to  his  house  in  Greenley  Street 
at  the  far  West  End,  and  to  his  stiff  old  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Froke,  who  knew  his  stiff  old  ways.  And,  turning  his 
back  on  everybody,  everybody  forgot  all  about  him.  Ex- 
cept as  now  and  then,  at  intervals  of  years,  there  broke 
out  here  or  there,  at  some  distant  point  in  some  family 
crisis,  a  sudden  recollection  from  which  would  spring  a 
half  suggestion,  "  Why,  there's  Uncle  Titus !  If  he 
was  only,"  —  or,  "  if  he  would  only,"  —  and  there  it 
ended.  Much  as  it  might,  be  with  a  housewife,  who  says 
of  some  stored-away  possession  forty  times,  perhaps,  before 
it  ever  turns  out  available,  "  Why,  there's  that  old  gray 
taffety !  If  it  were  only  green,  now  !  "  or,  "  If  there  were 
three  or  four  yards  more  of  it !  " 

Uncle  Titus  was  just  Uncle  Titus,  neither  more  nor 
less ;  so  Mrs.  Oferr  and  Aunt  Oldways  consulted  about 
their  own  measures  and  materials  ;  and  never  reckoned  the 


THIS   WAY,    AND   THAT.  9 

old  taffety  at  all.  There  was  money  enough  to  clothe  and 
educate ;  little  more. 

"  I  will  take  home  one"  said  Mrs.  Oferr,  distinctly. 

So,  they  were  to  be  separated? 

They  did  not  realize  what  this  was,  however.  They 
were  told  of  letters  and  visits ;  of  sweet  country-living, 
of  city  sights  and  pleasures ;  of  kittens  and  birds'  nests, 
and  the  great  barns  ;  of  music  and  dancing  lessons,  and 
little  parties,  —  "by-and-by,  when  it  was  proper." 

"  Let  me  go  to  Homesworth,"  whispered  Frank  to  Aunt 
Oldways. 

Laura  gravitated  as  surely  to  the  streets  and  shops,  and 
the  great  school  of  young  ladies. 

"  One  taken  and  the  other  left,"  quoted  Luclarion,  over 
the  packing  of  the  two  small  trunks. 

"  We're  both  going,"  says  Laura,  surprised.  "  One 
taken  ?  Where  ?  " 

"  Where  the  carcass  Is,"  answered  Luclarion. 

"  There's  one  thing  you'll  have  to  see  to  for  yourselves. 
I  can't  pack  it.  It  won't  go  into  the  trunks." 

"  What,  Luclarion  ?  " 

"  What  your  father  said  to  you  that  night." 

They  were  silent.  Presently  Frank  answered,  softly, 
—  "I  hope  I  shan't  forget  that." 

Laura,  the  pause  once  broken,  remarked,  rather  glibly, 
that  she  "  was  afraid  there  wouldn't  be  much  chance  to 
recollect  things  at  Aunt  Oferr's." 

"  She  isn't  exactly  what  I  call  a  heavenly-minded 
woman,"  said  Luclarion,  quietly. 

"  She  is  very  much  occupied,"  replied  Laura,  grandly 
taking  up  the  Oferr  style.  "  She  visits  a  great  deal,  and 
she  goes  out  in  the  carriage.  You  have  to  change  your 
dress  every  day  for  dinner,  and  I'm  to  take  French  les- 
sons." 


10  REAL    FOLKS. 

The  absurd  little  sinner  was  actually  proud  of  her  mag- 
nificent temptations.  She  was  only  a  child.  Men  and 
women  never  are,  of  course. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  pretty  hard  to  remember,"  re- 
peated Laura,  with  condescension. 

"  That's  your  stump  ! " 

Luclarion  fixed  the  steadfast  arrow  of  her  look  straight 
upon  her,  and  drew  the  bow  with  this  twang. 


LUCLARION.  11 

IL 

LUCLARION. 

HOW  Mrs.  Grapp  ever  came  to,  was  the  wonder.  Her 
having  the  baby  was  nothing.  Her  having  the  name 
for  it  was  the  astonishment. 

Her  own  name  was  Lucy ;  her  husband's  Luther ; 
that,  perhaps,  accounted  for  the  first  syllable  ;  afterwards, 
whether  her  mind  lapsed  off  into  combinations  of  such 
outshining  appellatives  as  "Clara"  and  "Marion,"  or 
whether  Mr.  Grapp  having  played  the  clarionet,  and  wooed 
her  sweetly  with  it  in  her  youth,  had  anything  to  do  with 
it,  cannot  be  told ;  but  in  those  prescriptive  days  of  quiet 
which  followed  the  domestic  advent,  the  name  did  some- 
how grow  together  in  the  fancy  of  Mrs.  Luther ;  and  in 
due  time  the  life-atom  which  had  been  born  indistinguisha- 
ble into  the  natural  world,  was  baptized  into  the  Christian 
Church  as  "  Luclarion "  Grapp.  Thenceforth,  and  no 
wonder,  it  took  to  itself  a  very  especial  individuality,  and 
became  what  this  story  will  partly  tell. 

Marcus  Grapp,  who  had  the  start  of  Luclarion  in  this 
"  meander,"  —  as  their  father  called  the  vale  of  tears,  — 
by  just  two  years'  time,  and  was  y-clipped,  by  everybody 
but  his  mother  "  Mark,"  —  in  his  turn,  as  they  grew 
old  together,  cut  his  sister  down  to  "  Luke."  Then 
Luther  Grapp  called  them  both  "  The  Apostles."  And 
not  far  wrong ;  since  if  ever  the  kingdom  of  heaven  does 
send  forth  its  Apostles  —  nay,  its  little  Christs  —  into  the 
work  on  earth,  in  these  days,  it  is  as  little  children  into 
loving  homes. 


12  REAL   FOLKS. 

The  Apostles  got  up  early  one  autumn  morning,  when 
Mark  was  about  six  years  old,  and  Luke  four.  They 
crept  out  of  their  small  trundle-bed  in  their  mother's  room 
adjoining  the  great  kitchen,  and  made  their  way  out  softly 
to  the  warm  wide  hearth. 

There  were  new  shoes,  a  pair  apiece,  brought  home  from 
the  Mills  the  night  before,  set  under  the  little  crickets  in  the 

o  * 

corners.  These  had  got  into  their  dreams,  somehow,  and 
into  the  red  rooster's  first  halloo  from  the  end  room  roof, 
and  into  the  streak  of  pale  daylight  that  just  stirred  and 
lifted  the  darkness,  and  showed  doors  and  windows,  but 
not  yet  the  blue  meeting-houses  on  the  yellow  wall-paper, 
by  which  they  always  knew  when  it  was  really  morning ; 
and  while  Mrs.  Grapp  was  taking  that  last  beguiling  nap 
in  which  one  is  conscious  that  one  means  to  get  up  pres- 
ently, and  rests  so  sweetly  on  one's  good  intentions,  letting 
the  hazy  mirage  of  the  day's  work  that  is  to  be  done 
play  along  the  horizon  of  dim  thoughts  with  its  unrisen 
activities,  —  two  little  flannel  night-gowns  were  cuddled 
in  small  heaps  by  the  chimney-side,  little  bare  feet  were 
trying  themselves  into  the  new  shoes,  and  lifting  them- 
selves up,  crippled  with  two  inches  of  stout  string  between 
the  heels. 

Then  the  shoes  were  turned  into  spans  of  horses,  and 
chirruped  and  trotted  softly  into  their  cricket-stables ; 
and  then  —  what  else  was  there  to  do,  until  the  strings 
were  cut,  and  the  flannel  night-gowns  taken  off? 

It  was  so  still  out  here,  in  the  big,  busy,  day-time  room  ; 
it  was  like  getting  back  where  the  world  had  not  begun  ; 
surely  one  must  do  something  wonderful  with  the  materials 
all  lying  round,  and  such  an  opportunity  as  that. 

It  was  old-time  then,  when  kitchens  had  fire-places  ;  or 
rather  the  house  was  chiefly  fire-place,  in  front  of  and  about 


LUCLAEION  13 

which  was  more  or  less  of  kitchen-space.  In  the  deep 
fire-place  lay  a  huge  mound  of  gray  ashes,  a  Vesuvius, 
under  which  red  bowels  of  fire  lay  hidden.  In  one  corner 
of  the  chimney  leaned  an  iron  bar,  used  sometimes  in  some 
forgotten,  old  fashioned  way,  across  dogs  or  pothooks,  — 
who  knows  now  ?  At  any  rate,  there  it  always  was. 

Mark, 'ambitious,  put  all  his  little  strength  to  it  this  morn- 
ing, and  drew  it  down,  carefully,  without  much  clatter,  on 
the  hearth.  Then  he  thought  how  it  would  turn  red  under 
those  ashes,  where  the  big  coals  were,  and  how  it  would 
shine  and  sparkle  when  he  pulled  it  out  again,  like  the  red- 
hot,  hissing  iron  Jack-the-Giant-Killer  struck  into  the  one- 
eyed  monster's  eye.  So  he  shoved  it  in  ;  and  forgot  it 
there,  while  he  told  Luke  —  very  much  twisted  and  dislo- 
cated, and  misjoined  —  the  leading  incidents  of  the  giant 
story  ;  and  then  lapsed  off,  by  some  queer  association,  into 
the  Scripture  narrative  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren,  who 
"  pulled  his  red  coat  off,  and  put  him  in  &  fit,  and  left  him 
there." 

"  And  then  what  ?  "  says  Luke. 

"  Then,  —  O,  my  iron  's  done  !  See  here,  Luke  !  "  — 
and  taking  it  prudently  with  the  tongs,  he  pulled  back  the 
rod,  till  the  glowing  end,  a  foot  or  more  of  live,  palpitating, 
flamy  red,  lay  out  upon  the  broad  open  bricks. 

"  There,  Luke  !     You  daresn't  put  your  foot  on  that !  " 

Dear  little  Luke,  who  wouldn't,  at  even  four  years  old, 
be  dared ! 

And  dear  little  white,  tender,  pink-and-lily  foot ! 

The  next  instant,  a  shriek  of  pain  shot  through  Mrs. 
Grapp's  ears,  and  sent  her  out  of  her  dreams  and  out  of 
her  bed,  and  with  one  single  impulse  into  theJdtchen,  with 
her  own  bare  feet,  and  in  her  night-gown. 

The  little  foot  had  only  touched ;  a  dainty,  timid,  yet 


14  REAL   FOLKS. 

most  resolute  touch ;  but  the  sweet  flesh  shriveled,  and 
the  fierce  anguish  ran  up  every  fibre  of  the  baby  body,  to 
the  very  heart  and  brain. 

"  O !  O,  O  !  "  came  the  long,  pitiful,  shivering  cries, 
as  the  mother  gathered  her  in  her  arms. 

"What  is  it?  What  did  you  do?  How  came  you 
to?"  And  all  the  while  she  moved  quickly  nere  and 
there,  to  cupboard  and  press-drawer,  holding  the  child 
fast,  and  picking  tip  as  she  could  with  one  hand,  cotton 
wool,  and  sweet-oil  flask,  and  old  linen  bits ;  and  so  she 
bound  it  up,  saying  still,  every  now  and  again,  as  all  she 
could  say,  —  "  What  did  you  do  ?  How  came  you  to  ?  " 
Till,  in  a  little  lull  of  the  fearful  smart,  as  the  air  was 
shut  away,  and  the  oil  felt  momentarily  cool,.upon  the  ache, 
Luke  answered  her,  — 

"  He  hed  I  dare-hn't,  and  ho  I  did !  " 
"You  little  fool!" 

The  rough  word  was  half  reaction  of  relief,  that  the 
child  could  speak  at  all,  half  horrible  spasm  of  all  her 
own  motherly  nerves  that  thrilled  through  and  through 
with  every  pang  that  touched  the  little  frame,  hers  also. 
Mothers  never  do  part  bonds  with  babies  they  have  borne. 
Until  the  day  they  die,  each  quiver  of  their  life  goes  back 
straight  to  the  heart  beside  which  it  began. 
"  You  Marcus  !  What  did  you  mean  ?  " 
"  I  meant  she  darsn't;  and  she  no  business  to  'a  dars't," 
said  Mark,  pale  with  remorse  and  fright,  but  standing  up 
stiff  and  manful,  with  bare  common  sense,  when  brought 
to  bay.  And  then  he  marched  away  into  his  mother's  bed- 
room, plunged  his  head  down  into  the  clothes,  and  cried, — 
harder  than  Luclarion. 

Nobody  wore  any  new  shoes  that   day;   Mark  for  a 
punishment,  —  though  he  flouted  at  the  penalty  as  such, 


LUCLAEION.  15 

with  an,  "  I  guess  you'd  see  me  !  "  And  there  were  many 
days  before  poor  little  Luclarion  could  wear  any  shoes  at 
all*. 

The  foot  got  well,  however,  without  hindrance.  But 
Luke  was  the  same  little  fool  as  ever ;  that  was  not  burnt 
out.  She  would  never  be  "  dared  "  to  anything. 

They  called  it  "  stumps  "  as  they  grew  older.  They 
played  "  stumps  "  all  through  the  barns  and  woods  and  mea- 
dows ;  over  walls  and  rocks,  and  rafters  and  house-roofs. 
But  the  burnt  foot  saved  Luke's  neck  scores  of  times, 
doubtless.  Mark  remembered  it ;  he  never  "  stumped  " 
her  to  any  certain  hurt,  or  where  he  could  not  lead  the 
way  himself. 

The  mischief  they  got  into  and  out  of  is  no  part  of  my 
story  ;  but  one  day  something  happened  —  things  do  hap- 
pen as  far  back  in  lives  as  that  —  which  gave  Luclarion 
her  clew  to  the  world. 

They  had  got  into  the  best  parlor,  —  that  sacred  place 
of  the  New  England  farm-house,  that  is  only  entered  by 
the  high-priests  themselves  on  solemn  festivals,  weddings 
and  burials,  Thanksgivings  and  quiltings  ;  or  devoutly,  now 
and  then  to  set  the  shrine  in  order,  shut  the  blinds  again, 

7  O  * 

and  so  depart,  leaving  it  to  gather  the  gloom  and  gran- 
deur that  things  and  places  and  people  do  when  they  are 
good  for  nothing  else. 

The  children  had  been  left  alone  ;  for  their  mother  had 
gone  to  a  sewing  society,  and  Grashy,  the  girl,  was  up- 
stairs in  her  kitchen-chamber-bedroom,  with  a  nail  over 
the  door-latch  to  keep  them  out  while  she  "  fixed  over  " 
her  best  gown. 

"  Le's  play  Lake  Ontario,"  says  Marcus. 

Now  Lake  Ontario,  however  they  had  pitched  upon  it, 
stood  with  them  for  all  the  waters  that  are  upon  the  face 


16  REAL   FOLKS. 

of  the  earth,  and  all  the  confusion  and  peril  of  them.  To 
play  it,  they  turned  the  room  into  one  vast  shipwreck,  of 
upset  and  piled  up  chairs,  stools,  boxes,  buckets,  and  what 
else  they  could  lay  hands  on  ;  and  among  and  over  them 
they  navigated  their  difficult  and  hilarious  way.  By  no 
means  were  they  to  touch  the  floor ;  that  was  the  Lake,  — 
that  were  to  drown. 

It  was  Columbus  sometimes ;  sometimes  it  was  Captain 
Cook ;  to-day,  it  was  no  less  than  Jason  sailing  after  the 
golden  fleece. 

Out  of  odd  volumes  in  the  garret,  and  out  of  "  best 
books "  taken  down  from  the  secretary  in  the  "  settin'- 
room,"  and  put  into  their  hands,  with  charges,  of  a  Sun- 
day, to  keep  them  still,  they  had  got  these  things,  jum- 
bled into  strange  far-off  and  near  fantasies  in  their  childish 
minds.  "  Lake  Ontario  "  included  and  connected  all. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Marcus,  tumbling  up 
against  the  parlor  door  and  an  idea  at  once.  "  In  here  1  " 

"  What?"  asked  Luke,  breathless,  without  looking  up, 
and  paddling  with  the  shovel,  from  an  inverted  rocking- 
chair. 

"  The  golden  thing  !    Hush  !  " 

At  this  moment  Grashy  came  into  the  kitchen,  took  a 
little  tin  kettle  from  a  nail  over  the  dresser,  and  her  sun- 
bonnet  from  another  behind  the  door,  and  made  her  way 
through  the  apartment  as  well  as  she  could  for  bristling 
chair-legs,  with  exemplary  placidity.  She  was  used  to 
"Lake  Ontario." 

"  Don't  get  into  any  mischief,  you  Apostles,"  was  her 
injunction.  "  I'm  goin'  down  to  Miss  Ruddock's  for  some 
'east." 

"  Good,"  says  Mark,  the  instant  the  door  was  shut. 
"  Now  this  is  Colchis,  and  I'm  going  in." 


LUCLARION.  17 

He  pronounced  it  much  like  "  cold-cheese,"  and  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  he  was  naming  any  unusual  or 
ancient  locality.  There  was  a  "  Jason  "  in  the  Mills  Vil- 
lage. He  kept  a  grocer's  shop.  Colchis  might  be  close  by 
for  all  he  knew  ;  out  beyond  the  wall,  perhaps,  among  the 
old  barrels.  Children  place  all  they  read  or  hear  about, 
or  even  all  they  imagine,  within  a  very  limited  horizon. 
They  cannot  go  beyond  their  world.  Why  should  they  ? 
Neither  could  those  very  venerable  ancients. 

"'Tain't,"  says  Luclarion,  with  unbeguiled  practicality. 
"  It's  just  ma's  best  parlor,  and  you  mustn't." 

It  was  the  "  mustn't "  that  was  the  whole  of  it.  If  Mark 
had  asserted  that  the  back  kitchen,  or  the  cellar-way  closet 
was  Colchis,  she  would  have  indorsed  it  with  enthusiasm, 
and  followed  on  like  a  loyal  Argonaut,  as  she  was.  But 
her  imagination  here  was  prepossessed.  Nothing  in  old 
fable  could  be  more  environed  with  awe  and  mystery  than 
this  best  parlor. 

"  And,  besides,"  said  Luclarion,  "  I  dont  care  for  the 
golden  fleece  ;  I'm  tired  of  it.  Let's  play  something  else." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  there  is  in  here,"  persisted  Mark. 
"  There's  two  enchanted  children.  I've  seen  'em !  " 

"  Just  as  though,"  said  Luke  contemptuously.  "  Ma 
ain't  a  witch." 

"  Tain't  ma.  She  don't  know.  They  aint  visible  to  her. 
She  thinks  it's  nothing  but  the  best  parlor.  But  it  opens 
out,  right  into  the  witch  country,  —  not  for  her.  'Twill 
if  we  go.  See  if  it  dont." 

He  had  got  hold  of  her  now  ;  Luclarion  could  not  resist, 
that.  Anything  might  be  true  of  that  wonderful  best 
room,  after  all.  It  was  the  farthest  Euxine,  the  witch- 
land,  everything,  to  them. 

So  Mark  turned  the  latch,  and  they  crept  in. 


18  REAL   FOLKS. 

"We  must  open  a  shutter,"  Mark  said,  groping  his 
way. 

"  Grashy  will  be  back,"  suggested  Luke,  fearfully. 

"  Guess  so ! "  said  Mark.  "  She  ain't  got  coaxed  to  take 
her  sun-bonnet  off  yet,  an'  it  '11  take  her  ninety-'leven 
hours  to  get  it  on  again. 

He  had  let  in  the  light  now  from  the  south  window. 

The  red  carpet  on  the  floor ;  the  high  sofa  of  figured 
hair-cloth,  with  brass-headed  nails,  and  brass  rosettes  in 
the  ends  of  the  hard,  cylinder  pillows ;  the  tall,  carved 
cupboard  press,  its  doors  and  drawers  glittering  with  hang- 
ing brass  handles ;  right  opposite  the  door  by  which  they 
had  come  in,  the  large,  leaning  mirror,  gilt  —  garnished  with 
grooved  and  beaded  rim  and  an  eagle  and  ball-chains  over 
the  top,  —  all  this,  opening  right  in  from  the  familiar 
every-day  kitchen  and  their  Lake  Ontario,  —  it  certainly 
meant  something  that  such  a  place  should  be.  It  meant  a 
great  deal  more  than  sixteen  feet  square  could  hold,  and 
what  it  really  was  did  not  stop  short  at  the  gray-and- 
crimson  stenciled  walls. 

The  two  were  all  alone  in  it ;  perhaps  they  had  never 
been  all  alone  in  it  before.  I  think,  notwithstanding  their 
mischief  and  enterprise,  they  never  had. 

And  deep  in  the  mirror,  face  to  face  with  them,  coming 
down,  it  seemed,  the  red  slant  of  an  inner  and  more  brill- 
iant floor,  they  saw  two  other  little  figures.  Their  own 
they  knew,  really,  but  elsewhere  they  never  saw  their 
own  figures  entire.  There  was  not  another  looking-glass  in 
the  house  that  was  more  than  two  feet  long,  and  they  were 
all  hung  up  so  high  I 

"There!"  whispered  Mark.  "There  they  are,  and 
they  can't  get  out." 

"  Of  course  they  can't,"  said  sensible  Luclarion. 


LUCLARION.  19 

"  If  we  only  knew  the  right  thing  to  say,  or  do,  they 
might,"  said  Mark.  "  It's  that  they're  waiting  for,  you 
see.  They  always  do.  It's  like  the  sleeping  beauty 
Grashy  told  us." 

"  Then  they've  got  to  wait  a  hundred  years,"  said 
Luke. 

"  Who  knows  when  they  began  ?  " 

"  They  do  everything  that  we  do,"  said  Luclarion,  her 
imagination  kindling,  but  as  under  protest.  "  If  we  could 
jump  in  perhaps  they  would  jump  out." 

"  We  might  jump  at  'em,"  said  Marcus.  "  Jest  get  'em 
going,  and  may-be  they'd  jump  over.  Le's  try." 

So  they  set  up  two  chairs  from  Lake  Ontario  in  the 
kitchen  doorway,  to  jump  from  ;  but  they  could  only 
jump  to  the  middle  round  of  the  carpet,  arid  who  could 
expect  that  the  shadow  children  should  be  beguiled  by 
that  into  a  leap  over  bounds  ?  They  only  came  to  the 
middle  round  of  their  carpet. 

"  We  must  go  nearer ;  we  must  set  the  chairs  in  the 
middle,  and  jump  close.  Jest  shave,  you  know,"  said 
Marcus. 

"  O,    I'm  afraid,"  said  Luclarion. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what !  Le's  run  and  jump  !  Clear  from 
the  other  side  of  the  kitchen,  you  know.  Then  they'll 
have  to  run  too,  and  may-be  they  can't  stop." 

So  they  picked  up  chairs  and  made  a  path,  and  ran  from 
across  the  broad  kitchen  into  the  parlor  doorway,  quite  on 
to  the  middle  round  of  the  carpet,  and  then  with  great 
leaps  came  down  bodily  upon  the  floor  close  in  front  of  the 
large  glass  that  leaned  over  them,  with  two  little  fallen 
figures  in  it,  rolling  aside  quickly  also,  over  the  slanting 
red  carpet. 

But,  O  dear,  what  did  it  ? 


20  REAL   FOLKS. 

Had  the  time  come,  anyhow,  for  the  old  string  to  part 
its  last  fibre,  that  held  the  mirror  tilting  from  the  wall,  — 
or  was  it  the  crash  of  a  completed  spell  ? 

There  came  a  snap,  —  a  strain,  —  as  some  nails  or 
screws  that  held  it  otherwise  gave  way  before  the  forward 
pressing  weight,  and  down,  flat-face  upon  the  floor,  be- 
tween the  children,  covering  them  with  fragments  of  splin- 
tered glass  and  gilded  wood,  —  eagle,  ball-chains,  and  all, 
—  that  whole  magnificence  and  mystery  lay  prostrate. 

Behind,  where  it  had  been,  was  a  blank,  brown-stained 
cobwebbed  wall,  thrown  up  harsh  and  sudden  against 
them,  making  the  room  small,  and  all  the  enchanted 
chamber,  with  its  red  slanting  carpet,  and  its  far  reflected 
corners,  gone. 

The  house  hushed  up  again  after  that  terrible  noise, 
and  stood  just  the  same  as  ever.  When  a  thing  like  that 
happens,  it  tells  its  own  story,  just  once,  and  then  it  is 
over.  People  are  different.  They  keep  talking. 

There  was  Grashy  to  come  home.  She  had  not  got  there 
in  time  to  hear  the  house  tell  it.  She  must  learn  it  from 
the  children.  Why  ? 

"  Because  they  knew,"  Luclarion  said.  "  Because,  then, 
they  could  not  wait  and  let  it  be  found  out." 

"  We  never  touched  it,"  said  Mark. 

"  We  jumped,"  said  Luke. 

"  We  couldn't  help  it,  if  that  did  it.  S'posin'  we'd 
jumped  in  the  kitchen,  or  —  the  —  flat-irons  had  tumbled 
down,  —  or  anything?  That  old  string  was  all  wore  out." 

14  Well,  we  was  here,  and  we  jumped  ;  and  we  know." 

"  We  was  here,  of  course  ;  and  of  course  we  couldn't 
help  knowing,  with  all  that  slam-bang.  Why,  it  almost 
upset  Lake  Ontario !  We  can  tell  how  it  slammed,  and 
how  we  thought  the  house  was  coming  down.  I  did." 


LUCLARION.  21 

"  And  how  we  were  in  the  best  parlor,  and  how  we 
jumped,"  reiterated  Luclarion,  slowly.  "  Marcus,  it's  a 
stump  ! " 

They  were  out  in  the  middle  of  Lake  Ontario  now, 
sitting  right  down  underneath  the  wrecks,  upon  the  floor  ; 
that  is,  under  water,  without  ever  thinking  of  it.  The 
parlor  door  was  shut,  with  all  that  disaster  and  dismay 
behind  it. 

"  Go  ahead,  then  !  "  said  Marcus,  and  he  laid  himself 
back  desperately  on  the  floor.  "  There's  Grashy  !  " 

"  Sakes  and  patience ! "  ejaculated  Grashy,  merrily, 
coming  in.  "  They're  drownded,  —  dead,  both  of  'em  ; 
down  to  the  bottom  of  Lake  Ontariah  !  " 

"  No  we  ain't,"  said  Luclarion,  quietly.  "  It  isn't 
Lake  Ontario  now.  It's  nothing  but  a  clutter.  But 
there's  an  awful  thing  in  the  best  parlor,  and  we  don't 
know  whether  we  did  it  or  not.  We  were  in  there,  and 
we  jumped." 

Grashy  went  straight  to  the  parlor  door,  and  opened  it. 
She  looked  in,  turned  pale,  and  said  "  'Lection  !  " 

That  is  a  word  the  women  have,  up  in  the  country,  for 
solemn  surprise,  or  exceeding  emergency,  or  dire  confu- 
sion. I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  derived  from  religion 
or  politics.  It  denotes  a  vital  crisis,  either  way,  and  your 
hands  full.  Perhaps  it  had  the  theological  association  in 
Grashy' s  mind,  for  the  next  thing  she  said  was,  "  My 
soul !  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  that's  a  sign  of,  you  children  ?  " 
"  Sign  the  old  thing  was  rotten,"  said  Marcus,  rather 
sullenly. 

"  Wish  that  was  all,"  said  Grashy,  her  lips  white  yet. 
"  Hope  there  mayn't  nothin'  dreadful  happen  in  this 
house  before  the  vear's  out.  It's  wuss'n  thirteen  at  the 
table." 


22  REAL   FOLKS. 

"  Do  you  s'pose  we  did  it?  "  asked  Luke,  anxiously. 

"  Where  was  you  when  it  tumbled  ?  " 

"Right  in  front  of  it.  But  we  were  rolling  away. 
We  tumbled." 

"  'Twould  er  come  down  the  fust  jar,  anyway,  if  a 
door  had  slammed.  The  string's  cut  right  through,"  said 
Grashy,  looking  at  the  two  ends  sticking  up  stiff  and 
straight  from  the  top  fragment  of  the  frame.  "  But  the 
mercy  is  you  war'n't  smashed  yourselves  to  bits  and  flin- 
ders. Think  o' that!" 

"  Do  you  s'pose  ma  '11  think  of  that  ?  "  asked  Luclarion. 

«  \Vell  —  yes  ;  but  it  may  make  her  kinder  madder,  — 
just  at  first,  you  know.  Between  you  and  me  and  the 
lookin'-glass,  you  see,  —  well,  yer  ma  is  a  pretty  strong- 
feelin'  woman,"  said  Grashy,  reflectively.  "'Fi  was  you 
I  wouldn't  say  nothin'  about  it.  What's  the  use  ?  I 
shan't." 

"  It's  a  stump,"  repeated  Luclarion,  sadly,  but  in  very 
resolute  earnest. 

Grashy  stared. 

"  Well,  if  you  ain't  the  curiousest  young  one,  Luke 
Grapp !  "  said  she,  only  half  comprehending. 

When  Mrs.  Grapp  came  home,  Luclarion  went  into 
her  bedroom  after  her,  and  told  her  the  whole  story. 
Mrs.  Grapp  went  into  the  parlor,  viewed  the  scene  of 
calamity,  took  in  the  sense  of  loss  and  narrowly  escaped 
danger,  laid  the  whole  weight  of  them  upon  the  disobe- 
dience to  be  dealt  with,  and  just  as  she  had  said,  "  You 
little  fool  I  "  out  of  the  very  shock  of  her  own  distress 
when  Luke  had  burned  her  baby  foot,  she  turned  back 
now,  took  the  two  children  up-stairs  in  silence,  gave  them 
each  a  good  old  orthodox  whipping,  and  tucked  them  into 
their  beds. 


LUCLARION.  23 

They  slept  one  on  each  side  of  the  great  kitchen- 
chamber. 

"  Mark,"  whispered  Luke,  tenderly,  after  Mrs.  Grapp's 
step  had  died  away  down  the  stairs.  "  How  do  you 
feel  ?  " 

"  Hot !  "  said  Mark.     "  How  do  you  ?  " 

"  You  ain't  mad  with  me,  be  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  I  feel  real  cleared  up  and  comfortable.  But 
it  was  a  stump,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

From  that  time  forward,  Luclarion  Grapp  had  got  her 
light  to  go  by.  She  understood  life.  It  was  "  stumps  " 
all  through.  The  Lord  set  them,  and  let  them ;  she 
found  that  out  afterward,  when  she  was  older,  and  "  ex- 
perienced religion."  I  think  she  was  mistaken  in  the 
dates,  though  ;  it  was  recognition,  this  later  thing ;  the 
experience  was  away  back,  —  at  Lake  Ontario. 

It  was  a  stump  when  her  father  died,  and  her  mother 
had  to  manage  the  farm,  and  she  to  help  her.  The  mort- 
gage they  had  to  work  off  was  a  stump ;  but  faith  and 
Luclarion's  dairy  did  it.  It  was  a  stump  when  Marcus 
wanted  to  go  to  college,  and  they  undertook  that,  after 
the  mortgage.  It  was  a  stump  when  Adam  Burge  wanted 
her  to  marry  him,  and  go  and  live  in  the  long  red  cottage 
at  Side  Hill,  and  she  could  not  go  till  they  had  got 
through  with  helping  Marcus.  It  was  a  terrible  stump 
when  Adam  Burge  married  Persis  Cone  instead,  and  she 
had  to  live  on  and  bear  it.  It  was  a  stump  when  her 
mother  died,  and  the  farm  was  sold. 

Marcus  married ;  he  never  knew ;  he  had  a  belles- 
lettres  professorship  in  a  new  college  up  in  D .  He 

would  not  take  a  cent  of  the  farm  money  ;  he  had  had 


24  REAL  FOLKS. 

his  share  long  ago ;  the  four  thousand  dollars  were 
invested  for  Luke.  He  did  the  best  he  could,  and  all 
he  knew  ;  but  human  creatures  can  never  pay  each  other 
back.  Only  God  can  do  that,  either  way. 

Luclarion  did  not  stay  in .  There  were  too  few 

there  now,  and  too  many.  She  came  down  to  Boston. 
Her  two  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  a  year  was  very 
good,  as  far  as  it  went,  but  it  would  not  keep  her  idle ; 
neither  did  she  wish  to  live  idle.  She  learned  dress-mak- 
ing ;  she  had  taste  and  knack  ;  she  was  doing  well ;  she 
enjoyed  going  about  from  house  to  house  for  her  days' 
work,  and  then  coming  back  to  her  snug  room  at  night, 
and  her  cup  of  tea  and  her  book. 

Then  it  turned  out  that  so  much  sewing  was  not  good 
for  her ;  her  health  was  threatened  ;  she  had  been  used 
to  farm  work  and  "  all  out-doors."  It  was  a  "  stump  " 
again.  That  was  all  she  called  it ;  she  did  not  talk 
piously  about  a  "  cross."  What  difference  did  it  make  ? 
There  is  another  word,  also,  for  "  cross "  in  Hebrew. 

Luclarion  came  at  last  to  live  with  Mrs.  Edward  Shiere. 
And  in  that  household,  at  eight  and  twenty,  we  have  just 
found  her. 


BY   STORY-BAIL  :    TWENTY-SIX   YEARS   AN    HOUR.        25 

III. 

BY   STORY-RAIL  :    TWENTY-SIX   YEARS    AN    HOUR. 

LAURA  SHIERE  did  not  think  much  about  the 
"  stump,"  when,  in  her  dark  gray  merino  travelling- 
dress,  and  her  black  ribbons,  nicely  appointed,  as  Mrs. 
Oferr's  niece  should  be,  down  to  her  black  kid  gloves  and 
broad-hemmed  pocket-handkerchief,  and  little  black  straw 
travelling-basket  (for  morocco  bags  were  not  yet  in  those 
days),  she  stepped  into  the  train  with  her  aunt  at  the 
Providence  Station,  on  her  way  to  Stonington  and  New 
York. 

The  world  seemed  easily  laid  out  before  her.  She  was 
like  a  cousin  in  a  story-book,  going  to  arrive  presently  at  a 
new  home,  and  begin  a  new  life, -in  which  she  would  be 
very  interesting  to  herself  and  to  those  about  her.  She 
felt  rather  important,  too,  with  her  money  independence  ; 
there  being  really  *'  property  "  of  hers  to  be  spoken  of  as 
she  had  heard  it  of  late.  She  had  her  mother's  diamond 
ring  on  her  third  finger,  and  was  comfortably  conscious  of 
it  when  she  drew  off  her  left-hand  glove.  Laura  Shiere's 
nature  had  only  been  stirred,  as  yet,  a  very  little  below 
the  surface,  and  the  surface  rippled  pleasantly  in  the  sun- 
light that  was  breaking  forth  from  the  brief  clouds. 

Among  the  disreputable  and  vociferous  crowd  of  New 
York  hack  drivers,  that  swarmed  upon  the  pier  as  the 
Massachusetts  glided  into  her  dock,  it  was  good  to  see  that 
subduedly  respectable  and  consciously  private  and  superior 
man  in  the  drab  overcoat  and  the  nice  gloves  and  boots, 
who  came  forward  and  touched  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Oferr,  took 


26  REAL    FOLKS. 

her  shawl  and  basket,  and  led  the  way,  among  the  aggra- 
vated public  menials,  to  a  handsome  private  carriage  wait- 
ing on  the  street. 

"  All  well  at  home,  David  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Oferr. 

"  All  well,  ma'am,  thank  you,"  replied  David. 

And  another  man  sat  upon  the  box,  in  another  drab 
coat,  and  touched  his  hat ;  and  when  they  reached  Wav- 
erley  Place  and  alighted,  Mrs.  Oferr  had  something  to  say 
to  him  of  certain  directions,  and  addressed  him  as 
"  Moses." 

It  was  very  grand  and  wonderful  to  order  "  David"  and 
"  Moses  "  about.  Laura  felt  as  if  her  aunt  were  something 
only  a  little  less  than  "  Michael  with  the  sword."  Laura 
had  a  susceptibility  for  dignities ;  she  appreciated,  as  we 
have  seen  out  upon  the  wood-shed,  "  high  places,  and  all 
the  people  looking  up." 

David  and  Moses  were  brothers,  she  found  out ;  she 
supposed  that  was  the  reason  they  dressed  alike,  in  drab 
coats ;  as  she  and  Frank  used  to  wear  their  red  merinos, 
and  their  blue  ginghams.  A  little  spasm  did  come  up  in 
her  throat  for  a  minute,  as  she  thought  of  the  old  frocks 
and  the  old  times  already  dropped  so  far  behind;  but 
Alice  and  Geraldine  Oferr  met  her  the  next  instant  on  the 
broad  staircase  at  the  back  of  the  marble-paved  hall,  look- 
ing slight  and  delicate,  and  princess-like,  in  the  grand 
space  built  about  them  for  their  lives  to  move  in  ;  and  in 
the  distance  and  magnificence  of  it  all,  the  faint  little 
momentary  image  of  Frank  faded  away. 

She  went  up  with  them  out  of  the  great  square  hall, 
over  the  stately  staircase,  pas£  the  open  doors  of  drawing- 
rooms  and  library,  stretching  back  in  a  long  suite,  with  the 
conservatory  gleaming  green  from  the  far  end  over  the 
garden,  up  the  second  stairway  to  the  floor  where  their 


BY   STORY-RAIL  :    TWENTY-SIX    YEARS   AN    HOUR.        27 

rooms  were  ;  bedrooms  and  nursery,  —  this  last  called  so 
still,  though  the  great,  airy  front-room  was  the  place  used 
now  for  their  books  and  amusements  as  growing  young 
ladies,  —  all  leading  one  into  another  around  the  sky- 
lighted upper  hall,  into  which  the  sunshine  came  streaked 
with  amber  and  violet  from  the  richly  colored  glass.  She 
had  a  little  side  apartment  given  to  her  for  her  own,  with 
a  recessed  window,  in  which  were  blossoming  plants  just 
set  there  from  the  conservatory ;  opposite  stood  a  white, 
low  bed  in  a  curtained  alcove,  and  beyond  was  a  dressing- 
closet.  Laura  thought  she  should  not  be  able  to  sleep 
there  at  all  for  a  night  or  two,  for  the  beauty  of  it  and  the 
good  time  she  should  be  having. 

At  that  same  moment  Frank  and  her  Aunt  Oldways 
were  getting  down  from  the  stage  that  had  brought  them 
over  from  Ipsley,  where  they  slept  after  their  day's  jour- 
ney from  Boston,  —  at  the  doorstone  of  the  low,  broad- 
roofed,  wide-built,  roomy  old  farm-house  in  Homesworth. 

Right  in  the  edge  of  the  town  it  stood,  its  fields  stretch- 
ing over  the  south  slope  of  green  hills  in  sunny  uplands, 
and  down  in  meadowy  richness  to  the  wild,  hidden,  seques- 
tered river-side,  where  the  brown  water  ran  through  a  nar- 
row, rocky  valley,  —  Swift  River  they  called  it.  There  are 
a  great  many  Swift  Rivers  in  New  England.  It  was  only 
a  vehement  little  tributary  of  a  larger  stream,  beside  which 
lay  larger  towns ;  it  was  doing  no  work  for  the  world,  ap- 
parently, at  present ;  there  were  no  mills,  except  a  little 
grist-mill  to  which  the  farmers  brought  their  corn,  cuddled 
among  the  rocks  and  wild  birches  and  alders,  at  a  turn 
where  the  road  came  down,  and  half  a  dozen  planks  made 
a  bit  of  a  bridge. 

"  O,  what  beautiful  places ! "  cried  Frank,  as  they 
crossed  the  little  bridge,  and  glanced  either  way  into  a 


28  REAL    FOLKS. 

green,  gray,  silvery  vista  of  shrubs  and  rocks,  and  rushing 
water,  with  the  white  spires  of  meadow-sweet  and  the 
pink  hardback,  and  the  first  bright  plumes  of  the  golden 
rod  nodding  and  shining  against  the  shade,  —  as  they 
passed  the  head  of  a  narrow,  grassy  lane,  trod  by  cows' 
feet,  and  smelling  of  their  milky  breaths,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  hay-barns,  —  as  they  came  up,  at  length,  over  the 
long  slope  of  turf  that  carpeted  the  way,  as  for  a  bride's 
feet,  from  the  roadside  to  the  very  threshold.  She  looked 
along  the  low,  treble-piled  garden  wall,  too,  and  out  to  the 
open  sheds,  deep  with  pine  chips  ;  and  upon  the  broad 
brown  house-roof,  with  its  long,  gradual  decline,  till  its 
eaves  were  within  reach  of  a  child's  fingers  from  the 
ground ;  and  her  quick  eye  took  in  facilities. 

"  O,  if  Laura  could  see  this !  After  the  old  shed-top  in 
Brier  Street,  and  the  one  tree  !  " 

But  Laura  had  got  what  the  shed-top  stood  for  with 
her ;  it  was  Frank  who  had  hearkened  to  whole  forests  in 
the  stir  of  the  one  brick-rooted  fir.  To  that  which  each 
child  had,  it  was  already  given. 

In  a  week  or  two  Frank  wrote  Laura  a  letter.  It  was 
an  old-fashioned  letter,  you  know  ;  a  big  sheet,  written 
close,  four  pages,  all  but  the  middle  of  the  last  page, 
which  was  left  for  the  "  superscription."  Then  it  was 
folded,  the  first  leaf  turned  down  twice,  lengthwise  ;  then 
the  two  ends  laid  over,  toward  each  other ;  then  the  last 
doubling,  or  rather  trebling,  across  ;  and  the  open  edge 
slipped  over  the  folds.  A  wafer  sealed  it,  and  a  thimble 
pressed  it,  —  and  there  were  twenty-five  cents  postage  to 
pay.  That  was  a  letter  in  the  old  times,  when  Laura 
and  Frank  Shiere  were  little  girls.  And  this  was  that 
letter :  — 


BY  STORY-RAIL:  TWENTY-SIX  YEARS  AN  HOUR.     29 

DEAR  LAURA,  —  We  got  here  safe,  Aunt  Oldways  and 
I,  a  week  ago  last  Saturday,  and  it  is  beautiful.  There  is 
a  green  lane,  —  almost  everybody  has  a  green  lane,  — 
and  the  cows  go  up  and  down,  and  the  swallows  build  in 
the  barn-eaves.  They  fly  out  at  sundown,  and  fill  all  the 
sky  up.  It  is  like  the  specks  we  used  to  watch  in  the  sun- 
shine when  it  came  in  across  the  kitchen,  and  they  danced 
up  and  down  and  through  and  away,  and  seemed  to  be  live 
things  ;  only  we  couldn't  tell,  you  know,  what  they  were, 
or  if  they  really  did  know  how  good  it  was.  But  these 
are  big  and  real,  and  you  can  see  their  wings,  and  you 
know  what  they  mean  by  it.  I  guess  it  is  all  the  same 
thing,  only  some  things  are  little  and  some  are  big.  You 
can  see  the  stars  here,  too,  —  such  a  sky  full.  And  that 
is  all  the  same  again. 

There  are  beautiful  roofs  and  walls  here.  I  guess  you 
would  think  you  were  high  up  !  Harett  and  I  go  up  from 
under  the  cheese-room  windows  right  over  the  whole 
house,  and  we  sit  on  the  peak  by  the  chimney.  Harett  is 
Mrs.  Dillon's  girl.  Not  the  girl  that  lives  with  her,  — 
her  daughter.  But  the  girls  that  live  with  people  are 
daughters  here.  Somebody's  else,  I  mean.  They  are  all 
alike.  I  suppose  her  name  is  Harriet,  but  they  all  call  her 
Harett.  I  don't  like  to  ask  her  for  fear  she  should  think  I 
thought  they  didn't  know  how  to  pronounce. 

I  go  to  school  with  Harett ;  up  to  the  West  District. 
We  carry  brown  bread  and  butter,  and  doughnuts,  and 
cheese,  and  apple-pie  in  tin  pails,  for  luncheon.  Don't 
you  remember  the  brown  cupboard  in  Aunt  Oldways' 
kitchen,  how  sagey,  and  doughnutty,  and  good  it  always 
smelt  ?  It  smells  just  so  now,  and  everything  tastes  just 
the  same. 

There  is  a  great  rock  under  an  oak  tree  half  way  up  to 


30  KEAL    FOLKS. 

school,  by  the  side  of  the  road.  We  always  stop  there  to 
rest,  coming  home.  Three  of  the  girls  come  the  same 
way  as  far  as  that,  and  we  always  save  some  of  our  din- 
ner to  eat  up  there,  and  we  tell  stories.  I  tell  them  about 
dancing-school,  and  the  time  we  went  to  the  theatre  to 
see  "Cinderella,"  and  going  shopping  with  mother,  and 
our  little  tea-parties,  and  the  Dutch  dolls  we  made  up  in 
the  long  front  chamber.  O,  don't  you  remember,  Laura  ? 
What  different  pieces  we  have  got  into  our  remembrances 
already !  I  feel  as  if  I  was  making  patchwork.  Some- 
time, may-be,  I  shall  tell  somebody  about  living  here. 
Well,  they  will  be  beautiful  stories  !  Homesworth  is  an 
elegant  place  to  live  in.  You  will  see  when  you  come 
next  summer. 

There  is  an  apple  tree  down  in  the  south  orchard  that 
bends  just  like  a  horse's  back.  Then  the  branches  come 
up  over  your  head  and  shade  you.  We  ride  there,  and 
we  sit  and  eat  summer  apples  there.  Little  rosy  apples 
with  dark  streaks  in  them  all  warm  with  the  sun.  You 
can't  think  what  a  smell  they  have,  just  like  pinks  and 
spice  boxes.  Why  don't  they  keep  a  little  way  off  from 
each  other  in  cities,  and  so  have  room  for  apple  trees  ?  I 
don't  see  why  they  need  to  crowd  so.  I  hate  to  think  of 
you  all  shut  up  tight  when  I  am  let  right  out  into  green 
grass,  and  blue  sky,  and  apple  orchards.  That  puts  me  in 
mind  of  something !  Zebiah  Jane,  Aunt  Oldways'  girl, 
always  washes  her  face  in  the  morning  at  the  pump-basin 
out  in  the  back  dooryard,  just  like  the  ducks.  She  says 
she  can't  spatter  round  in  a  room  ;  she  wants  all  creation 
for  a  slop-bowl.  I  feel  as  if  we  had  all  creation  for  every- 
thing up  here.  But  I  can't  put  all  creation  in  a  letter  if 
I  try.  That  would  spatter  dreadfully. 

I  expect  a  long  letter  from  you  every  day  now.     But  I 


BY   STORY-RAIL  :    TWENTY-SIX   YEARS   AN    HOUR.        31 

don't  see  what  you  will  make  it  out  of.  I  think  I  have 
got  all  the  things  and  you  won't  have  anything  left  but  the 
words.  I  am  sure  you  don't  sit  out  on  the  wood-shed  at 
Aunt  Oferr's,  and  I  dont  believe  you  pound  stones  and 
bricks,  and  make  colors.  Do  you  know  when  we  rubbed 
our  new  shoes  with  pounded  stone  and  made  them  gray  ? 

I  never  told  you  about  Luclarion.  She  came  up  as  soon 
as  the  things  were  all  sent  off,  and  she  lives  at  the  minis- 
ter's. Where  she  used  to  live  is  only  two  miles  from  here, 
but  other  people  live  there  now,  and  it  is  built  on  to  and 
painted  straw  color,  with  a  green  door. 

Your  affectionate  sister, 

FRANCES  SHIERE. 

When  Laura's  letter  came  this  was  it :  — 

DEAR  FRANK,  —  I  received  your  kind  letter  a  week 
ago,  but  we  have  been  very  busy  having  a  dressmaker  and 
doing  all  our  fall  shopping,  and  I  have  not  had  time  to  an- 
swer it  before.  We  shall  begin  to  go  to  school  next  week, 
for  the  vacations  are  over,  and  then  I  shall  have  ever  so 
much  studying  to  do.  I  am  to  take  lessons  on  the  piano, 
too,  and  shall  have  to  practice  two  hours  a  day.  In  the 
winter  we  shall  have  dancing-school  and  practicing  par- 
ties. Aunt  has  had  -a  new  bonnet  made  for  me.  She 
did  not  like  the  plain  black  silk  one.  This  is  of  gros 
cTAfrique,  with  little  bands  and  cordings  round  the  crown 
and  front ;  and  I  have  a  dress  of  gros  d'Afrique,  too, 
trimmed  with  double  folds  piped  on.  For  every-day  I  have 
a  new  black  mousseline  with  white  clover  leaves  on  it,  and 
an  all-black  French  chally  to  wear  to  dinner.  I  don't 
wear  my  black  and  white  calico  at  all.  Next  summer 
aunt  means  to  have  me  wear  white  almost  all  the  time, 


32  REAL    FOLKS. 

with  lavender  and  violet  ribbons.  I  shall  have  a  white 
muslin  with  three  skirts  and  a  black  sash  to  wear  to  par- 
ties and  to  Public  Saturdays,  next  winter.  They  have 
Public  Saturdays  at  dancing-school  every  three  weeks. 
But  only  the  parents  and  relations  can  come.  Alice  and 
Geraldine  dance  the  shawl-dance  with  Helena  Pomeroy, 
with  crimson  and  white  Canton  crape  scarfs.  They  have 
showed  me  some  of  it  at  home.  Aunt  Oferr  says  I  shall 
learn  the  gavotte. 

Aunt  Oferr's  house  is  splendid.  The  drawing-room  is 
full  of  sofas,  and  divans,  and  ottomans,  and  a  causeuse, 
a  little  S-shaped  seat  for  two  people.  Everything  is  cov- 
ered with  blue  velvet,  and  there  are  blue  silk  curtains  to 
the  windows,  and  great  looking-glasses  between,  that  you 
can  see  all  down  into  through  rooms  and  rooms,  as  if  there 
were  a  hundred  of  them.  Do  you  remember  the  story 
Luclarion  used  to  tell  us  of  when  she  and  her  brother 
Mark  were' little  children  and  used  to  play  that  the  look- 
ing-glass-things were  real,  and  that  two  children  lived  in 
them,  in  the  other  room,  and  how  we  used  to  make  be- 
lieve too  in  the  slanting  chimney  glass  ?  You  could  make 
believe  it  here  with  forty  children.  But  I  don't  make 
believe  much  now.  There  is  such  a  lot  that  is  real,  and 
it  is  all  so  grown  up.  It  would  seem  so  silly  to  have 
such  plays,  you  know.  I  can't  help  thinking  the  things 
that  come  into  my  head  though,  and  it  seems  sometimes 
just  like  a  piece  of  a  story,  when  I  walk  into  the  drawing- 
room  all  alone,  just  before  company  comes,  with  rny  gros 
cTAfrique  on,  and  my  puffed  lace  collar,  and  my  hair  tied 
back  with  long  new  black  ribbons.  It  all  goes  through 
my  head  just  how  I  look  coming  in,  and  how  grand  it  is, 
and  what  the  words  would  be  in  a  book  about  it,  and  I 
seem  to  act  a  little  bit,  just  to  myself  as  if  I  were  a  girl 


BY  STORY-RAIL:  TWENTY-SIX  YEARS  AN  HOUR.     33 

in  a  story,  and  it  seems  to  say,  "  And  Laura  walked  up 
the  long  drawing-room  and  took  a  book  bound  in  crimson 
morocco  from  the  white  marble  pier  table  and  sat  down 
upon  the  velvet  ottoman  in  the  balcony  window."  But 
what  happened  then  it  never  tells.  I  suppose  it  will  by 
and  by.  I  am  getting  used  to  it  all,  though  ;  it  isn't  so 
awfully  splendid  as  it  was  at  first. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  new  bonnet  flares  a  great 
deal,  and  that  I  have  white  lace  quilling  round  the  face 
with  little  black  dotty  things  in  it  on  stems.  They  don't 
wear  those  close  cottage  bonnets  now.  And  aunt  has  had 
my  dresses  made  longer  and  my  pantalettes  shorter,  so 
that  they  hardly  show  at  all.  She  says  I  shall  soon  wear 
long  dresses,  I  am  getting  so  tall.  Alice  wears  them  now, 
and  her  feet  look  so  pretty,  and  she  has  such  pretty 
slippers :  little  French  pufple  ones,  and  sometimes  dark 
green,  and  sometimes  beautiful  light  gray,  to  go  with  dif- 
ferent dresses.  I  don't  care  for  anything  but  the  slippers, 
but  I  should  like  such  ones  as  hers.  Aunt  says  I  can't,  of 
course,  as  long  as  I  wear  black,  but  I  can  have  purple 
ones  next  summer  to  wear  with  my  white  dresses.  That 
will  be  when  I  come  to  see  you. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  this  is  a  very  wearing  kind 
of  a  letter,  there  are  so  many  *  wears '  in  it.     I  have  been 
reading  it  over  so  far,  but  I  can't  put  in  any  other  word. 
Your  affectionate  sister, 

LAURA  SHIERE. 

P.  S.  Aunt  Oferr  says  Laura  Shiere  is  such  a  good 
sounding  name.  It  doesn't  seem  at  all  common.  I  am 
glad  of  it.  I  should  hate  to  be  common. 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  give  you  any  more  of  it  just  here 
3 


34  REAL   FOLKS. 

than  these  two  letters  tell.  We  are  not  going  through 
all  Frank  and  Laura's  story.  That  with  which  we  have 
especially  to  do  lies  on  beyond.  But  it  takes  its  roots 
in  this,  as  all  stories  take  their  roots  far  back  and  under- 
neath. 

Two  years  after,  Laura  was  in  Homes  worth  for  her 
second  summer  visit  at  the  farm.  It  was  convenient, 
while  the  Oferrs  were  at  Saratoga.  Mrs.  Oferr  was  very 
much  occupied  now,  of  course,  with  introducing  her  own 
daughters.  A  year  or  two  later,  she  meant  to  give  Laura 
a  season  at  the  Springs.  "All  in  turn,  my  dear,  and 
good  time,"  she  said. 

The  winter  before,  Frank  had  been  a  few  weeks  in 
New  York.  But  it  tired  her  dreadfully,  she  said.  She 
liked  the  theatres  and  the  concerts,  and  walking  out  and 
seeing  the  shops.  But  there  was  "  no  place  to  get  out  of 
it  into."  It  didn't  seem  as  if  she  ever  really  got  home  and 
took  off  her  things.  She  told  Laura  it  was  like  that  first 
old  letter  of  hers ;  it  was  just  "  wearing,"  all  the  time. 

Laura  laughed.  "  But  how  can  you  live  without  wear- 
ing? "  said  she. 

Frank  stood  by,  wondering,  while  Laura  unpacked  her 
trunks  that  morning  after  her  second  arrival  at  Aunt 
Oldways'.  She  had  done  now  even  with  the  simplicity 
of  white  and  violet,  and  her  wardrobe  blossomed  out  like 
the  flush  of  a  summer  garden. 

She  unfolded  a  rose-colored  muslin,  with  little  raised 
embroidered  spots,  and  threw  it  over  the  bed. 

"Where  will  youwear  that,  up  here?"  asked  Frank, 
in  pure  bewilderment. 

"  Why,  I  wear  it  to  church,  with  my  white  Swiss  man- 
tle," answered  Laura.  "  Or  taking  tea,  or  anything. 
I've  a  black  silk  virite  for  cool  days.  That  looks  nice 


BY   STORY-KAIL  :    TWENTY-SIX    YEARS   AN    HOUR.        35 

with  it.  And  see  here,  —  I've  a  pink  sunshade.  They 
don't  have  them  much  yet,  even  in  New  York.  Mr.  Pem- 
berton  Oferr  brought  these  home  from  Paris,  for  Gerry, 
and  Alice,  and  me.  Gerry's  is  blue.  See  !  it  tips  back." 
And  Laura  set  the  dashy  little  thing  with  its  head  on  one 
side,  and  held  it  up  coquettishly. 

"  They  used  them  in  carriages  in  Paris,  he  said,  and 
in  St.  Petersburg,  driving  out  on  the  Nevskoi  Prospekt." 

"  But  where  are  your  common  things  ?  " 

"  Down  at  the  bottom ;  I  haven't  come  to  them.  They 
were  put  in  first,  because  they  would  bear  squeezing. 
I've  two  French  calicoes,  with  pattern  trimmings  ;  and 
a  lilac  jaconet,  with  ruffles,  open  down  the  front." 

Laura  wore  long  dresses  now ;  and  open  wrappers 
were  the  height  of  the  style. 

Laura  astonished  Homesworth  the  first  Sunday  of  this 
visit,  with  her  rose-colored  toilet.  Bonnet  of  shirred  pink 
silk  with  moss  rosebuds  and  a  little  pink  lace  veil ;  the 
pink  muslin,  full-skirted  over  two  starched  petticoats ; 
even  her  pink  belt  had  gay  little  borders  of  tiny  buds  and 
leaves,  and  her  fan  had  a  pink  tassel. 

"They're  the  things  I  wear ;  why  shouldn't  I?"  she 
said  to  Frank's  remonstrance. 

"  But  up  here  !  "  said  Frank.  "  It  would  seem  nicer 
to  wear  something  —  stiller." 

So  it  would ;  a  few  years  afterward  Laura  herself 
would  have  seen  that  it  was  more  elegant ;  though  Laura 
Shiere  was  always  rather  given  to  doing  the  utmost  —  in 
apparel  —  that  the  occasion  tolerated.  Fashions  grew 
stiller  in  years  after.  But  this  June  Sunday,  somewhere 
in  the  last  thirties  or  the  first  forties,  she  went  into  the 
village  church  like  an  Aurora,  and  the  village  long  re- 
membered the  resplendence.  Frank  had  on  a  white  cam- 


36  REAL    FOLKS. 

brie  dress,  with  a  real  rose  in  the  bosom,  cool  and  fresh, 
with  large  green  leaves ;  and  her  "  cottage  straw  "  was 
trimmed  with  white  lutestring,  crossed  over  the  crown. 

"  Do  you  feel  any  better  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Oldways  of 
Laura,  when  they  came  home  to  the  country  tea-dinner. 

"Better  —  how?1'  asked  Laura,  in  surprise. 

"  After  all  that  '  wear '  and  stare,"  said  Aunt  Oldways, 
quietly. 

Aunt  Oldways  might  have  been  astonished,  but  she 
was  by  no  means  awestruck,  evidently ;  and  Aunt  Old- 
ways  generally  spoke  her  mind. 

Somehow,  with  Laura  Shiere,  pink  was  pinker,  and 
ribbons  were  more  rustling  than  with  most  people.  Upon 
some  quiet  unconscious  folks,  silk  makes  no  spread,  and 
color  little  show  ;  with  Laura  every  gleam  told,  every 
fibre  asserted  itself.  It  was  the  live  Aurora,  bristling  and 
tingling  to  its  farthest  electric  point.  She  did  not  toss  or 
flaunt,  either ;  she  had  learned  better  of  Signer  Pirotti 
how  to  carry  herself;  but  she  was  in  conscious  rapport 
with  every  thing  and  stitch  she  had  about  her.  Some 
persons  only  put  clothes  on  to  their  bodies  ;  others  really 
seem  to  contrive  to  put  them  on  to  their  souls. 

Laura  Shiere  came  up  to  Homesworth  three  years 
later,  with  something  more  wonderful  than  a  pink  em- 
bossed muslin  :  —  she  had  a  lover. 

Mrs.  Oferr  and  her  daughters  were  on  their  way  to 
the  mountains  ;  Laura  was  to  be  left  with  the  Oldways. 
Grant  Ledwith  accompanied  them  all  thus  far  on  their 
way  ;  then  he  had  to  go  back  to  Boston. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  that  pink  sunshade  she 
used  to  carry  round  canted  all  to  one  side  over  her  shoul- 
der," said  Aunt  Oldways,  looking  after  them  down  the 
dusty  road  the  morning  that  he  went  away.  Laura,  in 


BY   STORY-RAIL  :    TWENTY-SIX    YEARS   AN   HOUR.        37 

her  white  dress  and  her  straw  hat  and  her  silly  little 
bronze-and-blue-silk  slippers  printing  the  roadside  gravel, 
leaning  on  Grant  Ledwith's  arm,  seemed  only  to  have 
gained  a  fresh,  graceful  adjunct  to  set  off.  her  own  pretty 
goings  and  comings  with,  and  to  heighten  the  outside 
interest  of  that  little  point  of  eternity  that  she  called  her 
life.  Mr.  Ledwith  was  not  so  much  a  man  who  had  won 
a  woman,  as  Laura  was  a  girl  who  had  "  got  a  beau." 

She  had  sixteen  tucked  and  trimmed  white  skirts,  too, 
she  told  Frank  ;  she  should  have  eight  more  before  she 
was  married ;  people  wore  ever  so  many  skirts  now,  at 
a  time.  She  had  been  to  a  party  a  little  while  ago  where 
she  wore  seven. 

There  were  deep  French  embroidery  bands  around 
some  of  these  white  skirts  ;  those  were  beautiful  for  morn- 
ing dresses.  Geraldine  Oferr  was  married  last  winter ; 
Laura  had  been  her  bridesmaid  ;  Gerry  had  a  white  bro- 
cade from  Paris,  and  a  point-lace  veil.  She  had  three 
dozen  of  everything,  right  through.  They  had  gone  to 
housekeeping  up  town,  in  West  Sixteenth  Street.  Frank 
would  have  to  come  to  New  York  next  winter,  or  in  the 
spring,  to  be  her  bridesmaid  ;  then  she  would  see ;  then  — 
who  knew  ! 

Frank  was  only  sixteen,  and  she  lived  away  up  here 
in  Homesworth  among  the  hills ;  she  had  not  "  seen," 
but  she  had  her  own  little  secret,  for  all  that ;  something 
she  neither  told  nor  thought,  yet  which  was  there  ;  and 
it  came  across  her  with  a  queer  little  thrill  from  the  hid- 
den, unlooked-at  place  below  thought,  that  "  Who"  didn't 
know. 

Laura  waited  a  year  for  Grant  Ledwith's  salary  to  be 
raised  to  marrying  point ;  he  was  in  a  wholesale  woolen 
house  in  Boston ;  he  was  a  handsome  fellow,  with  gentle- 


38  REAL   FOLKS. 

manly  and  taking  address,  —  capital,  this,  for  a  young 
salesman  ;  and  they  put  his  pay  up  to  two  thousand  dol- 
lars within  that  twelvemonth.  Upon  this,  in  the  spring, 
they  married ;  took  a  house  in  Filbert  Street,  down  by 
the  river,  and  set  up  their  little  gods.  These  were : 
a  sprinkle  of  black  walnut  and  brocatelle  in  the  drawing- 
room,  a  Sheffield-plate  tea-service,  and  a  crimson-and-gilt- 
edged  dinner  set  that  Mrs.  Oferr  gave  them ;  twilled 
turkey-red  curtains,  that  looked  like  thibet,  in  the  best 
chamber;  and  the  twenty-four  white  skirts  and  the  silk 
dresses,  and  whatever  corresponded  to  them  on  the  bride- 
groom's part,  in  their  wardrobes.  All  that  was  left  of 
Laura's  money,  and  all  that  was  given  them  by  Grant 
Ledwith's  father,  and  Mr.  Titus  Oldways'  astounding 
present  of  three  hundred  dollars,  without  note  or  com- 
ment, —  the  first  reminder  they  had  had  of  him  since 
Edward  Shiere's  funeral,  "  and  goodness  knew  how  he 
heard  anything  now,"  Aunt  Oferr  said, — had  gone  to 
this  outfit.  But  they  were  well  set  up  and  started  in  the 
world ;  so  everybody  said,  and  so  they,  taking  the  world 
into  their  young,  confident  hands  for  a  plaything,  not 
knowing  it  for  the  perilous  loaded  shell  it  is,  thought, 
merrily,  themselves. 

Up  in  Homesworth  people  did  not  have  to  wait  for  two 
thousand  dollar  salaries.  They  would  not  get  them  if 
they  did. 

Oliver  Ripwinkley,  the  minister's  son,  finished  his 
medical  studies  and  city  hospital  practice  that  year,  and 
came  back,  as  he  had  always  said  he  should  do,  to  settle 
down  for  a  country  doctor.  Old  Doctor  Parrish,  the  par- 
son's friend  of  fifty  years,  with  no  child  of  his  own,  kept 
the  place  for  Oliver,  and  hung  up  his  old-fashioned  saddle- 
bags in  the  garret  the  very  day  the  young  man  came  home. 


BY  STORY-RAIL:  TWENTY-SIX  YEARS  AN  HOUR.      39 

He  was  there  to  be  "  called  in,"  however,  and  with  this 
backing,  and  the  perforce  of  there  being  nobody  else, 
young  Doctor  Ripwinkley  had  ten  patients  within  the  first 
week  ;  thereby  opportunity  for  shewing  himself  in  the  eyes 
of  ten  families  as  a  young  man  who  "  appeared  to  know 
pretty  well  what  he  was  about." 

So  that  when  he  gave  further  proof  of  the  same,  by 
asking,  within  the  week  that  followed,  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Homesworth,  Frances  Shiere.  to  come  and  begin  the  world 

*  *  O 

with  him  at  Mile  Hill  village,  nobody,  not  even  Frank  her- 
self, was  astonished. 

She  bought  three  new  gowns,  a  shawl,  a  black  silk 
mantle,  and  a  straw  bonnet.  She  made  six  each  of  every 
pretty  white  garment  that  a  woman  wears ;  and  one  bright 
mellow  evening  in  September,  they  took  their  first  tea  in 
the  brown-carpeted,  white-shaded  little  corner  room  in 
the  old  "  Rankin  house  ;  "  a  bigger  place  than  they  really 
wanted  yet,  and  not  all  to  be  used  at  first;  but  rented 
"  reasonable,"  central,  sunshiny,  and  convenient ;  a  place 
that  they  hoped  they  should  buy  sometime  ;  facing  on  the 
broad  sidegreen  of  the  village  street,  and  running  back, 
with  its  field  and  meadow  belongings,  away  to  the  foot  of 
great,  gray,  sheltering  Mile  Hill. 

And  the  vast,  solemn  globe,  heedless  of  what  lit  here  or 
there  upon  its  breadth,  or  took  up  this  or  that  life  in  its 
little  freckling  cities,  or  between  the  imperceptible  foldings 
of  its  hills,  —  only  carrying  way»-passengers  for  the  centu- 
ries, —  went  plunging  on  its  track,  around  and  around, 
and  swept  them  all,  a  score  of  times,  through  its  summer 
and  its  winter  solstices. 


40 


IV. 

AFTERWARDS   IS    A    LONG   TIME. 

OLD  Mr.  Marmaduke  Wharne  had  come  down  from 
Outledge,  in  the  mountains,  on  his  way  home  to 
New  York.  He  had  stopped  in  Boston  to  attend  to  some 
affairs  of  his  own,  —  if  one  can  call  them  so,  since  Marma- 
duke Wharne  never  had  any  "  own  "  affairs  that  did  not 
chiefly  concern,  to  their  advantage,  somebody  else,  —  in 
which  his  friend  Mr.  Titus  Oldways  was  interested,  not 
personally,  but  Wharne  fashion.  Now,  reader,  you  know 
something  about  Mr.  Titus  Oldways,  which  up  to  this  mo- 
ment, only  God,  and  Marmaduke  Wharne,  and  Rachel 
Froke,  who  kept  Mr.  Oldways'  house,  and  wore  a  Friend's 
drab  dress  and  white  cap,  and  said  "  Titus,"  and  "  Marma- 
duke "  to  the  two  old  gentlemen,  and  "  thee  "  and  "thou  " 
to  everybody,  —  have  ever  known.  In  a  general  way  and 
relation,  I  mean ;  separate  persons  knew  particular  things ; 
but  each  separate  person  thought  the  particular  thing  he 
knew  to  be  a  whimsical  exception. 

Mr.  Oldways  did  not  belong  to  any  church  :  but  he  had 
an  English  Prayer-book  under  his  Bible  on  his  study  table, 
and  Baxter  and  Fenelon  and  a  Kempis  and  "  Wesley's 
Hymns,"  and  Swedenborg*s  "  Heaven  and  Hell "  and  "Ar- 
cana Celestia,"  and  Lowell's  "  Sir  Launfal,"  and  Dickens's 
"  Christmas  Carol,"  all  on  the  same  set  of  shelves,  —  that 
held,  he  told  Marmaduke,  his  religion ;  or  as  much  of  it  as 
he  could  get  together.  And  he  had  this  woman,  who  was  a 
Friend,  and  who  walked  by  the  Inner  Light,  and  in  outer 
charity,  if  ever  a  woman  did,  to  keep  his  house.  "  For," 


AFTERWARDS    IS    A    LONG    TIME.  41 

said  he,  "  the  blessed  truth  is,  that  the  Word  of  God  is  in 
the  world.  Alive  in  it.  When  you  know  that,  and 
wherever  you  can  get  hold  of  his  souls,  then  and  there 
you've  got  your  religion,  —  a  piece  at  a  time.  To  prove 
and  sort  your  pieces,  and  to  straighten  the  tangle  you 
might  otherwise  get  into,  there's  this"  and  he  laid  his 
hand  down  on  the  Four  Gospels,  bound  in  white  morocco, 
with  a  silver  cross  upon  the  cover,  —  a  volume  that  no 
earthly  creature,  again,  knew  of,  save  Titus  and  Marina- 
duke  and  Rachel  Froke,  who  laid  it  into  a  drawer  when  she 
swept  and  dusted,  and  placed  it  between  the  crimson  folds 
of  its  quilted  silken  wrapper  when  she  had  finished,  burnish- 
ing the  silver  cross  gently  with  a  scrap  of  chamois  leather 
cut  from  a  clean  piece  every  time.  There  was  nothing  else 
delicate  and  exquisite  in  all  the  plain  and  grim  establish- 
ment ;  and  the  crimson  wrapper  was  comfortably  worn,  and 
nobody  would  notice  it,  lying  on  the  table  there,  with  an 
almanac,  a  directory,  the  big,  open  Worcester's  Dictionary, 
and  the  scattered  pamphlets  and  newspapers  of  the  day. 

Out  in  the  world,  Titus  Oldways  went  about  with  visor 
down. 

He  gave  to  no  fairs  nor  public  charities  ;  "let  them  get 
all  they  could  that  way,  it  wasn't  his  way,"  he  said  to 
Rachel  Froke.  The  world  thought  he  gave  nothing,  either 
of  purse  or  life. 

There  was  a  plan  they  had  together,  —  he  and  Marma- 
duke  Wharne,  —  this  girls'  story-book  will  not  hold  the 
details  nor  the  idea  of  it,  —  about  a  farm  they  owned,  and 
people  working  it  that  could  go  nowhere  else  to  work  any- 
thing; and  a  mill-privilege  that  might  be  utilized  and 
expanded,  to  make  —  not  money  so  much  as  safe  and 
honest  human  life  by  way  of  making  money ;  and  they  sat 
and  talked  this  plan  over,  and  settled  its  arrangements,  in 


42  REAL   POLKS. 

the  days  that  Marmaduke  Wharne  was  staying  on  in  Bos- 
ton, waiting  for  his  other  friend,  Miss  Craydocke,  who  had 
taken  the  River  Road  down  from  Outledge,  and  so  come 

round  by  Z ,  where  she  was  staying  a  few  days  with 

the  Goldthwaites  and  the  Inglesides.  Miss  Craydocke  had 
a  share  or  two  in  the  farm  and  in  the  mill. 

And  now,  Titus  Oldways  wanted  to  know  of  Manna- 
duke  Wharne  what  he  was  to  do  for  Afterwards. 

It  was  a  question  that  had  puzzled  and  troubled  him. 
Afterwards. 

"  While  I  live,"  he  said,  "  I  will  do  what  I  can,  and  as 
I  can.  I  will  hand  over  my  doing,  and  the  wherewith,  to 
no  society  or  corporation.  I'll  pay  no  salaries  nor  circum- 
locutions. Neither  will  I  —  afterwards.  And  how  is  my 
money  going  to  work  on  ?  " 

"  Your  money  ?  " 

«  Well,  —God's  money." 

*'  How  did  it  work  when  it  came  to  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Oldways  was  silent. 

"  He  chose  to  send  it  to  you.  He  made  it  in  the  order 
of  things  that  it  should  come  to  you.  You  began,  your- 
self, to  work  for  money.  You  did  not  understand,  then, 
that  the  money  would  be  from  God  and  was  for  Him." 

"  He  made  me  understand." 

"  Yes.  He  looked  out  for  that  part  of  it  too.  He  can 
look  out  for  it  again.  His  word  shall  not  return  unto  him 
void." 

"  He  has  given  me  this,  though,  to  pass  on  ;  and  I  will 
not  put  it  into  a  machine.  I  want  to  give  some  living  soul 
a  body  for  its  living.  Dead  charities  are  dead.  It's  of  no 
use  to  will  it  to  you,  Marmaduke ;  I'm  as  likely  to  stay 
on,  perhaps,  as  you  are." 

"  And  the  youngest  life  might  drop,  the  day  after  your 
own.  You  can't  take  it  out  of  God's  hand." 


AFTERWARDS   IS   A   LONG   TIME.  43 

"  I  must  either  let  it  go  by  law,  or  will  it  —  here  and 
there.  I  know  enough  whom  it  would  help  ;  but  I  want 
to  invest,  not  spend  it ;  to  invest  it  in  a  life  —  or  lives  — 
that  will  carry  it  on  from  where  I  leave  it.  How  shall  I 
know?" 

"  He  giveth  it  a  body  as  it  pleaseth  Him,"  quoted  Mar- 
maduke  Wharne,  thoughtfully.  "  I  am  English,  you  know, 
Oldways  ;  I  can't  help  reverencing  the  claims  of  next  of 
kin.  Unless  one  is  plainly  shown  otherwise,  it  seems  the 
appointment.  How  can  we  set  aside  his  ways  until  He 
clearly  points  us  out  his  own  exception  ?  " 

"  My  |  next '  are  two  women  whom  I  don't  know  ;  my 
niece's  children.  She  died  thirty  years  ago." 

"  Perhaps  you  ought  to  know  them." 

"  I  know  about  them  ;  I've  kept  the  run ;  but  I've  held 
clear  of  family.  They  didn't  need  me,  and  I  had  no  right 
to  put  it  into  their  heads  they  did,  unless  I  fully  meant"  — 

He  broke  off. 

"  They're  like  everybody  else,  Wharne  ;  neither  better 
nor  worse,  I  dare  say  ;  but  the  world  is  full  of  just  such 
women.  How  do  I  know  this  money  would  be  well  in 
their  hands  —  even  for  themselves  ?  " 

"  Find  out." 

"  One  of  'em  was  brought  up  by  an  Oferr  woman !  " 

The  tone  in  which  he  commonized  the  name  to  a  satiric 
general  term,  is  not  to  be  written  down,  and  needed  not 
to  be  interpreted. 

"  The  other  is  well  enough,"  he  went  on,  "  and  con- 
tented enough.  A  doctor's  widow,  with  a  little  property, 
a  farm  and  two  children,  —  her  older  ones  died  very  young, 
—  u"p  in  New  Hampshire.  I  might  spoil  her;  and  the 
other,  —  well,  you  see  as  I  said,  I  don't  know." 

"  Find  out,"  said  Marmaduke  Wharne,  again. 


44  REAL   FOLKS. 

"  People  are  not  found  out  till  they  are  tried." 

"  Try  'em  !  " 

Mr.  Oldways  had  been  sitting  with  his  head  bent, 
thoughtfully,  his  eyes  looking  down,  his  hands  on  the  two 
stiff,  old-fashioned  arms  of  his  chair.  At  this  last  spondaic 
response  from  Marmaduke,  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  eye- 
brows, —  not  his  head,  —  and  raised  himself  slightly  with 
his  two  hands  pressing  on  the  chair  arms  ;  the  keen  glance 
and  the  half-movement  were  impulsively  toward  his  friend. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Try  'em,"  repeated  Marmaduke  Wharne.  "  Give 
God's  way  a  chance." 

Mr.  Oldways,  seated  back  in  his  chair  again,  looked  at 
him  intently  ;  made  a  little  vibration,  as  it  were,  with  his 
body,  that  moved  his  head  up  and  down  almost  impercep- 
tibly, with  a  kind  of  gradual  assenting  apprehension,  and 
kept  utterly  silent. 

So,  their  talk  being  palpably  over  for  this  time,  Marma- 
duke Wharne  got  up  presently  to  go.  They  nodded  at 
each  other,  friendlily,  as  he  looked  back  from  the  door. 

Left  alone,  Mr.  Titus  Oldways  turned  in  his  swivel-chair, 
around  to  his  desk  beside  which  he  was  sitting. 

"  Next  of  kin  ?  "  he  repeated  to  himself.  "  God's  way  ? 
—  Well !  Afterwards  is  a  long  time.  A  man  must  give 
it  up  somewhere.  Everything  escheats  to  the  king  at 
last." 

And  he  took  a  pen  in  his  hand  and  wrote  a  letter. 


"AFTERWARDS  IS  A  LONG  TIME."    Seep.  44. 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  HOMESWORTH.      45 

V. 

0 

HOW   THE    NEWS    CAME   TO    HOMESWORTH. 

"T  WISH  I  lived  in  the  city,  and  had  a  best  friend,5' 
•*-  said  Hazel  Ripwinkley  to  Diana,  as  they  sat  together 
on  the  long,  red,  sloping  kitchen  roof  under  the  arches  of 
the  willow-tree,  hemming  towels  for  their  afternoon  "stent." 
They  did  this  because  their  mother  sat  on  the  shed  roof 
under  the  fir,  when  she  was  a  child,  and  had  told  them  of 
it.  Imagination  is  so  much  greater  than  fact,  that  these 
children,  who  had  now  all  that  little  Frank  Shiere  had 
dreamed  of  with  the  tar  smell  and  the  gravel  stones  and 
the  one  tree,  —  who  might  run  free  in  the  wide  woods  and 
up  the  breezy  hillsides,  —  liked  best  of  all  to  get  out  on  the 
kitchen  roof  and  play  "  old  times,"  and  go  back  into  their 
mother's  dream. 

"  I  wish  I  lived  in  a  block  of  houses,  and  could  see 
across  the  corner  into  my  best  friend's  room  when  she  got 
up  in  the  morning !  " 

"  And  could  have  that  party  !  "  said  Diana. 

"  Think  of  the  clean,  smooth  streets,  with  red  sidewalks, 
and  people  living  all  along,  door  after  door !  I  like  things 
set  in  rows,  and  people  having  places,  like  the  desks  at 
school.  Why,  you've  got  to  go  way  round  Sand  Hill  to 
get  to  Elizabeth  Ann  Dorridon's.  I  should  like  to  go  up 
steps,  and  ring  bells ! " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Diana,  slowly.  "I  think  birds 
that  build  little  nests  about  anywhere  in  the  cunning, 
separate  places,  in  the  woods,  or  among  the  bushes,  have 
the  best  time." 


46  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  Birds,  Dine  !  It  ain't  birds,  it's  people  !  What  has 
that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  mean  I  think  nests  are  better  than  martin-boxes." 

"  Let's  go  in  and  get  her  to  tell  us  that  story.  She's  in 
the  round  room." 

The  round  room  was  a  half  ellipse,  running  in  against 
the  curve  of  the  staircase.  It  was  a  bit  of  a  place,  with 
the  window  at  one  end,  and  the  bow  at  the  other.  It  had 
been  Doctor  Ripwinkley's  office,  and  Mrs.  Ripwinkley 
sat  there  with  her  work  on  summer  afternoons.  The  door 
opened  out,  close  at  the  front,  upon  a  great  flat  stone  in 
an  angle,  where  was  also  entrance  into  the  hall  by  the 
house-door,  at  the  right  hand.  The  door  of  the  office 
stood  open,  and  across  the  stone  one  could  look  down,  be- 
tween a  range  of  lilac  bushes  and  the  parlor  windows, 
through  a  green  door-yard  into  the  street. 

"  Now,  Mother  Frank,  tell  us  about  the  party  !  " 

They  called  her  "  Mother  Frank  "  when  they  wished  to 
be  particularly  coaxing.  They  had  taken  up  their  father's 
name  for  her,  with  their  own  prefix,  when  they  were  very 
little  ones,  before  he  went  away  and  left  nobody  to  call 
her  Frank,  every  day,  any  more. 

"  That  same  little  old  story  ?  Won't  you  ever  be  tired 
of  it,  — you  great  girls?  "  asked  the  mother  ;  for  she  had 
told  it  to  them  ever  since  they  were  six  and  eight  years 
old. 

"  Yes !     No,  never !  "  said  the  children. 

For  how  should  they  outgrow  it  ?  It  was  a  sunny  little 
bit  out  of  their  mother's  own  child-life.  We  shall  go 
back  to  smaller  things,  one  day,  maybe,  and  find  them  yet 
more  beautiful.  It  is  the  going  back,  together. 

"The  same  old  way?" 

"  Yes  ;  the  very  same  old  way." 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  HOMESWORTH.       47 

"  We  had  little  open-work  straw  hats  and  muslin 
pelisses,  —  your  Aunt  Laura  and  I,"  —  began  Mrs.  Rip- 
winkley,  as  she  had  begun  all  those  scores  of  times  before. 
"  Mother  put  them  on  for  us,  —  she  dressed  us  just  alike, 
always,  —  and  told  us  to  take  each  other's  hands,  and  go 
up  Brier  and  down  Hickory  streets,  and  stop  at  all  the 
houses  that  she  named,  and  that  we  knew  ;  and  we  were 
to  give  her  love  and  compliments,  and  ask  the  mothers  in 
each  house,  —  Mrs.  Daj^ton,  and  Mrs.  Holridge  (she  lived 
up  the  long  steps),  and  Mrs.  Waldo w,  and  the  rest  of  them, 
to  let  Caroline  and  Grace  and  Fanny  and  Susan,  and  the 
rest  of  them,  come  at  four  o'clock,  to  spend  the  afternoon 
and  take  tea,  if  it  was  convenient." 

"  O,  mother !  "  said  Hazel,  "  you  didn't  say  that  when 
you  asked  people,  you  know." 

"  O,  no  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley.  "  That  was  when 
we  went  to  stop  a  little  while  ourselves,  without  being 
asked.  Well,  it  was  to  please  to  let  them  come.  And 
all  the  ladies  were  at  home,  because  it  was  only  ten 
o'clock  ;  and  they  all  sent  their  love  and  compliments,  and 
they  were  much  obliged,  and  the  little  girls  would  be  very 
happy. 

"  It  was  a  warm  June  day ;  up  Brier  Street  was  a  steep 
walk ;  down  Hickory  we  were  glad  to  keep  on  the  shady 
side,  and  thought  it  was  nice  that  Mrs.  Bemys  and  Mrs. 
Waldow  lived  there.  The  strings  of  our  hats  were  very 
moist  and  clinging  when  we  got  home,  and  Laura  had  a 
blue  mark  under  her  chin  from  the  green  ribbon. 

"  Mother  was  in  her  room,  in  her  white  dimity  morning 
gown,  with  little  bows  up  the  front,  the  ends  trimmed 
with  cambric  edging.  She  took  off  our  hats  and  our  pe- 
lisses, —  the  tight  little  sleeves  came  off  wrong  side  out,  — 
sponged  our  faces  with  cool  water,  and  brushed  out  Laura's 


48  REAL   FOLKS. 

curls.  That  was  the  only  difference  between  us.  I 
hadn't  any  curls,  and  my  hair  had  to  be  kept  cropped. 
Then  she  went  to  her  upper  bureau  drawer  and  took  out 
two  little  paper  boxes. 

"  *  Something  has  come  for  Blanche  and  Clorinda,  since 
you  have  been  gone,'  she  said,  smiling.  'I  suppose  you 
have  been  shopping  ?  '  We  took  the  paper  boxes,  laugh- 
ing back  at  her  with  a  happy  understanding.  We  were 
used  to  these  little  plays  of  mother's,  and  she  couldn't 
really  surprise  us  with  her  kindnesses.  We  went  and  sat 
down  in  the  window-seat,  and  opened  them  as  deliberately 
and  in  as  grown-up  a  way  as  we  could.  Inside  them 
were  two  little  lace  pelerines  lined  with  rose-colored  silk. 
The  boxes  had  a  faint  smell  of  musk.  The  things  were 
so  much  better  for  coming  in  boxes !  Mother  knew  that. 

"  Well,  we  dressed  our  dolls,  and  it  was  a  great  long  sun- 
shiny forenoon.  Mother  and  Luclarion  had  done. some- 
thing in  the  kitchen,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  sweet  bak- 
ing in  the  house.  Every  now  and  then  we  sniffed,  and 
looked  at  each  other,  and  at  mother,  and  laughed.  After 
dinner  we  had  on  our  white  French  calicoes  with  blue 
sprigs,  and  mother  said  she  should  take  a  little  nap,  and 
we  might  go  into  the  parlor  and  be  ready  for  our  company. 
She  always  let  us  receive  our  own  company  ourselves  at 
first.  And  exactly  at  four  o'clock  the  door-bell  rang,  and 
they  began  to  come. 

"  Caroline  and  Fanny  Dayton  had  on-  white  cambric 
dresses,  and  green  kid  slippers.  That  was  being  very 
much  dressed,  indeed.  Lucy  Waldow  wore  a  pink  lawn, 
and  Grace  Holridge  a  buff  French  print.  Susan  Bemys 
said  her  little  sister  couldn't  come  because  they  couldn't 
find  her  best  shoes.  Her  mother  thought  she  had  thrown 
them  out  of  the  window. 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  HOMESWORTH.      49 

"  When  they  all  got  there  we  began  to  play  '  Lady 
Fair ; '  and  we  had  just  got  all  the  '  lady  fairs,'  one 
after  another,  into  our  ring,  and  were  dancing  and  singing 
up  and  down  and  round  and  round,  when  the  door  opened 
and  mother  walked  in. 

"  We  always  thought  our  mother  was  the  prettiest  of 
any  of  the  girls1  mothers.  She  had  such  bright  shining 
hair,  and  she  put  it  up  with  shell  combs  into  such  little 
curly  puffs.  And  she  never  seemed  fussy  or  old,  but  she 
came  in  among  us  with  such  a  beautiful,  smiling  way,  as 
if  she  knew  beforehand  that  it  was  all  right,  and  there 
was  no  danger  of  any  mischief,  or  that  we  shouldn't  be- 
have well,  but  she  only  wanted  to  see  the  good  time. 
That  day  she  had  on  a  white  muslin  dress  with  little  purple 
flowers  on  it,  and  a  bow  of  purple  ribbon  right  in  the  side 
of  her  hair.  She  had  a  little  piece  of  fine  work  in  her 
hand,  and  after  she  had  spoken  to  all  the  little  girls  and 
asked  them  how  their  mothers  were,  she  went  and  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  front  windows,  and  made  little  scollops 
and  eyelets.  I  remember  her  long  ivory  stiletto,  with  a 
loop  of  green  ribbon  through  the  head  of  it,  and  the  sharp, 
tiny,  big-bowed  scissors  that  lay  in  her  lap,  and  the  bright, 
tapering  silver  thimble  on  her  finger. 

"  Pretty  soon  the  door  opened  again,  softly ;  a  tray  ap- 
peared, with  Hannah  behind  it.  On  the  tray  were  little 
glass  saucers  with  confectionery  in  them  ;  old-fashioned 
confectionery,  —  gibraltars,  and  colored  caraways,  and 
cockles  with  mottoes.  We  were  in  the  middle  of  "  So 
says  the  Grand  Mufti,'  and  Grace  Holridge  was  the 
Grand  Mufti.  Hannah  went  up  to  her  first,  as  she  stood 
there  alone,  and  Grace  took  a  saucer  and  held  it  up  be- 
fore the  row  of  us,  and  said,  '  Thus  says  the  Grand 

Mufti ! '  and   then  she  bit  a  red  gibraltar,  and  everybody 
4 


50  REAL    FOLKS. 

laughed.  She  did  it  so  quickly  and  so  prettily,  putting  it 
right  into  the  play.  It  was  good  of  her  not  to  say,  '  So 
says  the  Grand  Mufti.'  At  least  we  thought  so  then, 
though  Susan  Bemys  said  it  would  have  been  funnier. 

"  We  had  a  great  many  plays  in  those  days,  and  it  took 
a  long  afternoon  to  get  through  with  them.  We  had  not 
begun  to  wonder  what  we  should  do  next,  when  tea  time 
came,  and  we  went  down  into  the  basement  room.  It 
wasn't  tea,  though  ;  it  was  milk  in  little  clear,  pink  mugs, 
some  that  mother  only  had  out  for  our  parties,  and  cold 
water  in  crimped-edge  glasses,  and  little  biscuits,  and 
sponge-cakes,  and  small  round  pound-cakes  frosted.  These 
were  what  had  smelt  so  good  in  the  morning. 

"  We  stood  round  the  table  ;  there  was  not  room  for  all 
of  us  to  sit,  and  mother  helped  us,  and  Hannah  passed 
things  round.  Susan  Bemys  took  cake  three  times,  and 
Lucy  Waldow  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  Fanny  Dayton 
touched  me  softly  under  the  table. 

"  After  tea  mother  played  and  sung  some  little  songs  to 
us ;  and  then  she  played  the  '  Fisher's  Hornpipe  '  and 
'  Money  Musk,'  and  we  danced  a  little  contra-dance. 
The  girls  did  not  all  know  cotillons,  and  some  of  them 
had  not  begun  to  go  to  dancing-school.  Father  came 
home  and  had  his  tea  after  we  had  done  ours,  and  then  he 
came  up  into  the  parlor  and  watched  us  dancing.  Mr. 
Dayton  came  in,  too.  At  about  half  past  eight  some  of 
the  other  fathers  called,  and  some  of  the  mothers  sent 
their  girls,  and  everybody  was  fetched  away.  It  was  nine 
o'clock  when  Laura  and  I  went  to  bed,  and  we  couldn't 
go  to  sleep  until  after  the  clock  struck  ten,  for  thinking 
and  saying  what  a  beautiful  time  we  had  had,  and  antici- 
pating how  the  girls  would  talk  it  all  over  next  day  at 
school.  That,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  when  she  had 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  HOMESWORTH.      51 

finished,  "  was  the  kind  of  a  party  we  used  to  have  in 
Boston  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  don't  know  what  the 
little  girls  have  now." 

"  Boston !  "  said  Luclarion,  catching  the  last  words  as 
she  came  in,  with  her  pink  cape  bonnet  on,  from  the 
Homesworth  variety  and  finding  store,  and  post-office. 
"  You'll  talk  them  children  off  to  Boston,  finally,  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley  !  Nothing  ever  tugs  so  at  one  end,  but 
there 's  something  tugging  at  the  other ;  and  there 's 
never  a  hint  nor  a  hearing  to  anybody,  that  something 
more  doesn't  turn  up  concerning  it.  Here  's  a  letter,  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley  !  " 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  took  it  with  some  surprise.  It  was  not 
her  sister's  handwriting  nor  Mr.  Ledwith's,  on  the  cover ; 
and  she  rarely  had  a  letter  from  them  that  was  posted  in 
Boston,  now.  They  had  been  living  at  a  place  out  of 
town  for  several  years.  Mrs.  Ledwith  knew  better  than 
to  give  her  letters  to  her  husband  for  posting.  They 
got  lost  in  his  big  wallet,  and  stayed  there  till  thev  grew 
old. 

Who  should  write  to  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  after  all  these 
years,  from  Boston  ? 

She  looked  up  at  Luclarion,  and  smiled.  "  It  didn't 
take  a  Solomon,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  postmark. 

"  No,  nor  yet  a  black  smooch,  with  only  four  letters 
plain,  on  an  invelup.  'Taint  that,  it's  the  drift  of  things. 
Those  girls  have  got  Boston  in  their  minds  as  hard  and 
fast  as  they've  got  heaven  ;  and  I  mistrust  mightily  they'll 
get  there  first  somehow  !  " 

The  girls  were  out  of  hearing,  as  she  said  this ;  they 
had  got  their  story,  and  gone  back  to  their  red  roof  and 
their  willow  tree. 


52  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  Why,  Luclarion  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  as  she 
drew  out  and  unfolded  the  letter  sheet.  "  It's  from  Uncle 
Titus  Oldways." 

"  Then  he  ain't  dead,"  remarked  Luclarion,  and  went 
away  into  the  kitchen. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRANCES,  —  I  am  seventy-eight  years  old. 
It  is  time  I  got  acquainted  wjth  some  of  my  relations. 
I've  had  other  work  to  do  in  the  world  heretofore  (at 
least  I  thought  I  had),  and  so,  I  believe,  have  they.  But 
I  have  a  wish  now  to  get  you  and  your  sister  to  come  and 
live  nearer  to  me,  that  we  may  find  out  whether  we  really 
are  anything  to  each  other  or  not.  It  seems  natural,  I 
suppose,  that  we  might  be  ;  but  kinship  doesn't  all  run  in 
the  veins. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  this  with  reference  to  any  pos- 
sible intentions  of  mine  that  might  concern  you  after  my 
death  ;  my  wish  is  to  do  what  is  right  by  you,  in  return 
for  your  consenting  to  my  pleasure  in  the  matter,  while  I 
am  alive.  It  will  cost  you  more  to  live  in  Boston  than 
where  you  do  now,  and  I  have  no  business  to  expect  you 
to  break  up  and  come  to  a  new  home  unless  I  can  make 
it  an  object  to  you  in  some  way.  You  can  do  some  things 
for  your  children  here  that  you  could  not  do  in  Homes- 
worth.  I  will  give  you  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  live 
on,  and  secure  the  same  to  you  if  I  die.  I  have  a  house 
here  in  Aspen  Street,  not  far  from  where  I  live  myself, 
which  I  will  give  to  either  of  you  that  it  may  suit.  That 
you  can  settle  between  you  when  you  come.  It  is  rather 
a  large  house,  and  Mrs.  Ledwith's  family  is  larger,  I  think, 
than  yours.  The  estate  is  worth  ten  thousand  dollars,  and 
I  will  give  the  same  sum  to  the  one  who  prefers,  to  put 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  HOMESWORTH.      53 

into  a  house  elsewhere.     I  wish  you  to  reckon  this  as  all 
you  are  ever  to  expect  from  me,  except  the  regard  I  am 
willing  to  believe  I  may  come  to  have  for  you.     I  shall 
look  to  hear  from  you  by  the  end  of  the  week. 
"  I  remain,  yours  truly, 

"  TITUS  OLDWAYS." 

"  Luclarion  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  with  excitement, 
"  come  here  and  help  me  think  !  " 

"  Only  four  days  to  make  my  mind  up  in,"  she  said 
again,  when  Luclarion  had  read  the  letter  through. 

Luclarion  folded  it  and  gave  it  back. 

"  It  won't  take  God  four  days  to  think,"  she  answered 
quietly  ;  "  and  you  can  ask  Him  in  four  minutes.  You 
and  I  can  talk  afterwards."  And  Luclarion  got  up  and 
went  away  a  second  time  into  the  kitchen. 

That  night,  after  Diana  and  Hazel  were  gone  to  bed, 
their  mother  and  Luclarion  Grapp  had  some  last  words 
about  it,  sitting  by  the  white- scoured  kitchen  table,  where 
Luclarion  had  just  done  mixing  bread  and  covered  it  away 
for  rising.  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  apt  to  come  out  and  talk 
things  over  at  this  time  of  the  kneading.  She  could  get 
more  from  Luclarion  then  than  at  any  other  opportunity. 
Perhaps  that  was  because  Miss  Grapp  could  not  walk  off 
from  the  bread-trough  ;  or  it  might  be  that  there  was  some 
sympathy  between  the  mixing  of  her  flour  and  yeast  into  a 
sweet  and  lively  perfection,  and  the  bringing  of  her  mental 
leaven  wholesomely  to  bear. 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  were  meant,  Luclarion,"  said  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley,  at  last.  "  And  just  think  what  it  will  be  for 
the  children." 

"  I  guess   it's   meant  fast  enough,"  replied  Luclarion. 


54  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  But  as  for  what  it  will  be  for  the  children,  —  why,  that*s 
according  to  what  you  all  make  of  it.  And  that's  the 
stump." 

Luclarion  Grapp  was  fifty-four  years  old ;  but  her 
views  of  life  were  precisely  the  same  that  they  had  been 
at  twenty-eight. 


AND.  55 

VI. 

AND. 

THERE  is  a  piece  of  Z ,  just  over  the  river,  that 
they  call  "  And." 

It  began  among  the  school-girls  ;  Barbara  Holabird  had 
christened  it,  with  the  shrewdness  and  mischief  of  fourteen 
years  old.  She  said  the  "  and-so-forths  "  lived  there. 

It  was  a  little  supplementary  neighborhood  ;  an  after- 
groAvth,  coming  up  with  the  railroad  improvements,  when 
they  got  a  freight  station  established  on  that  side  for  the 

East  Z mills.  "  After  Z ,  what  should  it  be  but 

'  And  ? '  "  Barbara  Holabird  wanted  to  know.  The  peo- 
ple who  lived  there  called  it  East  Square ;  but  what  dif- 
ference did  that  make  ? 

It  was  two  miles  Boston-ward  from  Z centre, 

where  the  down  trains  stopped  first ;  that  was  five  min- 
utes gained  in  the  time  between  it  and  the  city.  Land 
was  cheap  at  first,  and  sure  to  come  up  in  value  ;  so  there 
were  some  streets  laid  out  at  right  angles,  and  a  lot  of 
houses  put  up  after  a  pattern,  as  if  they  had  all  been 
turned  out  of  blanc-mange  moulds,  and  there  was  "  East 
Square."  Then  people  began  by-and-by  to  build  for 
themselves,  and  a  little  variety  and  a  good  deal  of  am- 
bition came  in.  They  had  got  to  French  roofs  now ;  this 
was  just  before  the  day  of  the  multitudinous  little  paper 
collar-boxes  with  beveled  covers,  that  are  set  down  every- 
where now,  and  look  as  if  they  could  be  lifted  up  by  the 
chimneys,  any  time,  and  be  carried  off  with  a  thumb  and 
finger.  Two  and  a  half  story  houses,  Mansarded,  looked 


56  REAL    FOLKS. 

grand  ;  and  the  East  Square  people  thought  nothing  slight 

of  themselves,  though  the  "old  places"  and  the  real  Z 

families  were  all  over  on  West  Hill. 

Mrs.  Megilp  boarded  in  And  for  the  summer. 

"  Since  Oswald  had  been  in  business  she  couldn't  go 
far  from  the  cars,  you  know ;  and  Oswald  had  a  boat  on 
the  river,  and  he  and  Glossy  enjoyed  that  so  much.  Be- 
sides, she  had  friends  in  Z ,  which  made  it  pleasant ; 

and  she  was  tired,  for  her  part,  of  crowds  and  fashion. 
All  she  wanted  was  a  quiet  country  place.  She  knew 
the  Goldthwaites  and  the  Haddens ;  she  had  met  them 
one  year  at  Jefferson." 

Mrs.  Megilp  had  found  out  that  she  could  get  larger 
rooms  in  And  than  she  could  have  at  the  mountains  or 
the  sea-shore,  and  at  half  the  price  ;  but  this  she  did  not 
mention.  Yet  there  was  nothing  shabby  in  it,  except  her 
carefully  not  mentioning  it. 

Mrs.  Megilp  was  Mrs.  Grant  Ledwith's  chief  intimate 
and  counselor.  She  was  a  good  deal  the  elder ;  that  was 
why  it  was  mutually  advantageous.  Grant  Ledwith  was 
one  of  the  out-in-the- world,  up-to-the-times  men  of  the 
day  ;  the  day  in  which  everything  is  going,  and  everybody 
that  is  in  active  life  has,  somehow  or  other,  all  that  is 
going.  Grant  Ledwith  got  a  good  salary,  an  inflated  cur- 
rency salary ;  and  he  spent  it  all.  His  daughters  were 
growing  up,  and  they  were  stylish  and  pretty ;  Mrs.  Me- 
gilp took  a  great  interest  in  Agatha  and  Florence  Led- 
with, and  was  always  urging  their  mother  to  "  do  them 
justice."  "Agatha  and  Florence  were  girls  who  had  a 
right  to  every  advantage."  Mrs.  Megilp  was  almost  old 
enough  to  be  Laura  Ledwith's  mother ;  she  had  great 
experience,  and  knowledge  of  the  world  ;  and  she  sat  be- 
hind Laura's  conscience  and  drove  it  tandem  with  her 
inclination. 


AND.  57 

Per  contra,  it  was  nice  for  Mrs.  Megilp,  who  was  a 
widow,  and  whose  income  did  not  stretch  with  the  elas- 
ticity of  the  times,  to  have  friends  who  lived  like  the  Led- 
withs,  and  who  always  made  her  welcome  ;  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  Glossy  to  be  so  fond  of  Agatha  and  Florence, 
and  to  have  them  so  fond  of  her.  "  She  needed  young 
society,"  her  mother  said.  One  reason  that  Glossy  Me- 
gilp needed  young  society  might  be  in  the  fact  that  she 
herself  was  twenty-six. 

Mrs.  Megilp  had  advised  the  Ledwiths  to  buy  a  house 

in  Z .  "  It  was  just  far  enough  not  to  be  suburban, 

but  to  have  a  society  of  its  own  ;  and  there  was  excellent 

society  in  Z ,  everybody  knew.  Boston  was  hard 

work,  nowadays ;  the  distances  were  getting  to  be  so 
great."  Up  to  the  West  and  South  Ends,  —  the  material 
distances,  —  she  meant  to  be  understood  to  say  ;  but  there 
was  an  inner  sense  to  Mrs.  Megilp?s  utterances,  also. 

"  One  might  as  well  be  quite  out  of  town  ;  and  then 
it  was  always  something,  even  in  such  city  connection  as 
one  might  care  to  keep  up,  to  hail  from  a  well-recognized 

social  independency;  to  belong  to  Z was  a  standing, 

always.  It  wasn't  like  going  to  Forest  Dell,  or  Lake- 
grove,  or  Bellair ;  cheap  little  got-up  places  with  fancy 
names,  that  were  strung  out  on  the  railroads  like  French 
gilt  beads  on  a  chain." 

But  for  all  that,  Mrs.  Ledwith  had  only  got  into 
"  And  ;  "  and  Mrs.  Megilp  knew  it. 

Laura  did  not  realize  it  much  ;  she  had  bowing  and 
speaking  acquaintance  with  the  Haddens  and  the  Hendees, 
and  even  with  the  Marchbankses,  over  on  West  Hill ; 
and  the  Goldthwaites  and  the  Holabirds,  down  in  the 
town,  she  knew  very  well.  She  did  not  care  to  come 
much  nearer ;  she  did  not  want  to  be  bound  by  any  very 


58  REAL    FOLKS. 

stringent  and  exclusive  social  limits  ;  it  was  a  bother  to 
keep  up  to  all  the  demands  of  such  a  small,  old-established 
set.  Mrs.  Hendee  would  not  notice,  far  less  be  impressed 
bv  the  advent  of  her  new-style  Brussels  carpet  with  a 
border,  or  her  full,  fresh,  Nottingham  lace  curtains,  or 
the  new  covering  of  her  drawing-room  set  with  cuir-col- 
ored  terry.  Mrs.  Tom  Friske  and  Mrs.  Philgry,  down 
here  at  East  Square,  would  run  in,  and  appreciate,  and 
admire,  and  talk  it  all  over,  and  go  away  perhaps  break- 
ing the  tenth  commandment  amiably  in  their  hearts. 

Mrs.  Ledwith's  nerves  had  extended  since  we  saw  her 
as  a  girl ;  they  did  not  then  go  beyond  the  floating  ends 
of  her  blue  or  rose-colored  ribbons,  or,  at  furthest,  the  tip 
of  her  jaunty  laced  sunshade  ;  now  they  ramified,  —  for 
life  still  grows  in  some  direction,  —  to  her  chairs,  and  her 
china,  and  her  curtains,  and  her  ruffled  pillow-shams. 
Also,  savingly,  to  her  children's  "suits,"  and  party  dresses, 
and  pic-nic  hats,  and  double  button  gloves.  Savingly ; 
for  there  is  a  leaven  of  grace  in  mother-care,  even  though 
it  be  expended  upon  these.  Her  friend,  Mrs.  Inchdeepe, 
in  Helvellyn  Park,  with  whom  she  dined  when  she  went 
shopping  in  Boston,  had  nothing  but  her  modern  improve- 
ments and  her  furniture.  "  My  house  is  my  life,"  she 
used  to  say,  going  round  with  a  Canton  crape  duster, 
touching  tenderly  carvings  and  inlayings  and  gildings. 

Mrs.  Megilp  was  spending  the  day  with  Laura  Led- 
with  ;  Glossy  was  gone  to  town,  and  thence  down  to  the 
sea-shore,  with  some  friends. 

Mrs.  Megilp  spent  a  good  many  days  with  Laura.  She 
had  large,  bright  rooms  at  her  boarding-house,  but  then 
she  had  very  gristly  veal  pies  and  thin  tapioca  puddings 
for  dinner ;  and  Mrs.  Megilp's  constitution  required  some- 
thing more  generous.  She  was  apt  to  happen  in  at  this 


AND.  59 

season,  when  Laura  had  potted  pigeons.  A  little  bird 
told  her ;  a  dozen  little  birds,  I  mean,  with  their  legs  tied 
together  in  a  bunch  ;  for  she  could  see  the  market  wagon 
from  her  window,  when  it  turned  up  Mr.  Ledwith's 
avenue. 

Laura  had  always  the  claret  pitcher  on  her  dinner 
table,  too  ;  and  claret  and  water,  well-sugared,  went  de- 
liciously  with  the  savory  stew. 

They  were  up-stairs  now,  in  Laura's  chamber  ;  the  bed 
and  sofa  were  covered  with  silk  and  millinery ;  Laura 
was  looking  over  the  girls'  "  fall  things  ;  "  there  was  a 
smell  of  sweet  marjoram  and  thyme  and  cloves,  and  gen- 
eral richness  coming  up  from  the  kitchen ;  there  was  a 
bland  sense  of  the  goodness  of  Providence  in  Mrs.  Me- 
gilp's —  no,  not  heart,  for  her  heart  was  not  very  hungry ; 
but  in  her  eyes  and  nostrils. 

She  was  advising  Mrs.  Ledwith  to  take  Desire  and 
Helena's  two  green  silks  and  make  them  over  into  one 
for  Helena. 

"  You  can  get  two  whole  back  breadths  then,  by  piecing 
it  up  under  the  sash  ;  and  you  can't  have  all  those  gores 
again  ;  they  are  quite  done  with.  Everybody  puts  in 
whole  breadths  now.  There's  just  as  much  difference  "in 
the  way  of  goring  a  skirt,  as  there  is  between  gores  and 
straight  selvages." 

"  They  do  hang  well,  though  ;  they  have  such  a  nice 
slope." 

"  Yes,  —  but  the  stripes  and  the  seams  !  Those  tell  the 
story  six  rods  off;  and  then  there  must  be  sashes,  or  pos- 
tillions, or  something  ;  they  don't  make  anything  without 
them  ;  there  isn't  any  finish  to  a  round  waist  unless  you 
have  something  behind." 

"  They  wore  belts  last  year,  and  I  bought  those  expen- 


60  REAL    FOLKS. 

sive  gilt  buckles.  I'm  sure  they  used  to  look  sweetly. 
But  there  !  a  fashion  doesn't  last  nowadays  while  you're 
putting  a  thing  on  and  walking  oufr  of  the  house  !  " 

*'  And  don't  put  in  more  than  three  plaits,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Megilp,  intent  on  the  fate  of  the  green  silks. 
"  Everything  is  gathered  ;  you  see  that  is  what  requires 
the  sashes  ;  round  waists  and  gathers  have  a  queer  look 
without." 

"  If  you  once  begin  to  alter,  you've  got  to  make  all 
over,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith,  a  little  fractiously,  putting  the 
scissors  in  with  unwilling  fingers.  She  knew  there  was 
a  good  four  days'  work  before  her,  and  she  was  quick  with 
her  needle,  too. 

"  Never  mind ;  the  making  over  doesn't  cost  anything  ; 
you  turn  off  work  so  easily ;  and  then  you've  got  a  really 
stylish  thing." 

"  But  with  all  the  ripping  and  remodelling,  I  don't  get 
time  to  turn  round,  myself,  and  live!  It  is  all  fall  work, 
and  spring  work,  and  summer  work  and  winter  work. 
One  drive  rushes  pell-mell  right  over  another.  There 
isn't  time  enough  to  make  things  and  have  them ;  the 
good  of  them,  I  mean." 

"  The  girls  get  it ;  we  have  to  live  in  our  children," 
said  Mrs.  Megilp,  self-renouncingly.  "  I  can  never  rest 
until  Glossy  is  provided  with  everything ;  and  you  know, 
Laura,  I  am  obliged  to  contrive." 

Mrs.  Megilp  and  her  daughter  Glaucia  spent  about  a 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  between  them,  on  their  dress.  In 
these  days,  this  is  a  limited  allowance  —  for  the  Megilps. 
But  Mrs.  Megilp  was  a  woman  of  strict  pecuniary  princi- 
ple ;  the  other  fifteen  hundred  must  pay  all  the  rest ;  she 
submitted  cheerfully  to  the  Divine  allotment,  and  punctu- 
ally made  the  two  ends  meet.  She  will  have  this  to  show, 


AND.  61 

when  the  Lord  of  these  servants  cometh  and  reckoneth 
with  them,  and  that  man  who  has  been  also  in  narrow  cir- 
cumstances, brings  his  nicely  kept  talent  out  of  his  napkin. 

Desire  Ledwith,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  spoke  suddenly  from 
a  corner  where  she  sat  with  a  book,  — 

"  I  do  wonder  who  '  they  '  are,  mamma  !  " 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ledwith,  half  rising  from  her  chair, 
and  letting  some  breadths  of  silk  slide  down  upon  the 
floor  from  her  lap,  as  she  glanced  anxiously  from  the  win- 
dow down  the  avenue.  She  did  not  want  any  company 
this  morning. 

"Not  that,  mamma;  I  don't  mean  anybody  coming. 
The  '  theys '  that  wear,  and  don't  wear,  things ;  the  theys 
you  have  to  be  just  like,  and  keep  ripping  and  piecing 
for." 

"  You  absurd  child !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ledwith,  pet- 
tishly. "  To  make  me  spill  a  whole  lapful  of  work  for 
that !  They  ?  Why,  everybody,  of  course." 

"  Everybody  complains  of  them,  though.  Jean  Friske 
says  her  mother  is  all  discouraged  and  worn  out.  There 
isn't  a  thing  they  had  last  year  that  won't  have  to  be  made 
over  this,  because  they  put  in  a  breadth  more  behind,  and 
they  only  gore  side  seams.  And  they  don't  wear  black 
capes  or  cloth  sacks  any  more  with  all  kinds  of  dresses  ; 
you  must  have  suits,  clear  through.  It  seems  to  me  '  they ' 
is  a  nuisance.  And  if  it's  everybody,  we  must  be  part  of 
it.  Why  doesn't  somebody  stop  ?  " 

"  Desire,  I  wish  you'd  put  away  your  book,  and  help, 
instead  of  asking  silly  questions.  You  can't  make  the 
world  over,  with  '  why  don'ts  ?  ' ' 

"  I'll  rip,"  said  Desire,  with  a  slight  emphasis  ;  putting 
her  book  down,  and  coming  over  for  a  skirt  and  a  pair  of 
scissors.  "  But  you  know  I'm  no  good  at  putting  together 


62  REAL    FOLKS. 

again.  And  about  making  the  world  over,  I  don't  know 
but  that  might  be  as  easy  as  making  over  all  its  clothes. 
I'd  as  lief  try,  of  the  two." 

Desire  was  never  cross  or  disagreeable;  she  was  only 
"  impracticable,"  her  mother  said.  "  And  besides  that, 
she  didn't  know  what  she  really  did  want.  She  was  born 
hungry  and  asking,  with  those  sharp  little  eyes,  and  her 
mouth  always  open  while  she  was  a  baby.  '  It  was  a  sign,' 
the  nurse  said,  when  she  was  three  weeks  old.  And  then 
the  other  sign,  —  that  she  should  have  to  be  called  '  De- 
sire ! '  " 

Mrs.  Megilp  —  for  Mrs.  Megilp  had  been  in  office  as 
long  ago  as  that  —  had  siiggested  ways  of  getting  over  or 
around  the  difficulty,  when  Aunt  Desire  had  stipulated  to 
have  the  baby  named  for  her,  and  had  made  certain  per- 
suasive conditions. 

"  There's  the  pretty  French  turn  you  might  give  it,  — 
'  Desire"e.'  Only  one  more  '  e,'  and  an  accent.  That  is  so 
sweet,  and  graceful,  and  distinguished  !  " 

"  But  Aunt  Desire  won't  have  the  name  twisted.  It  is 
to  be  real,  plain  Desire,  or  not  at  all." 

Mrs.  Megilp  had  shrugged  her  snoulders. 

"  Well?  of  course  it  can  be  that,  to  christen  by,  and 
marry  by,  and  be  buried  by.  But  between  whiles,  —  peo- 
ple pick  up  names,  —  you'll  see  !  " 

Mrs.  Megilp  began  to  call  her  "  Daisy  "  when  she  was 
two  years  old.  Nobody  could  help  what  Mrs.  Megilp  took 
a  fancy  to  call  her  by  way  of  endearment,  of  course ;  and 
Daisy  she  was  growing  to  be  in  the  family,  when  one  day, 
at  seven  years  old,  she  heard  Mrs.  Megilp  say  to  her 
mother,  — 

"  I  don't  see  but  that  you've  all  got  your  Desire,  after 
all.  The  old  lady  is  satisfied  ;  and  away  up  there  in  Han- 


AND.  63 

over,  what  can  it  signify  to  her ?  The  child  is  "Daisy," 
practically,  now,  as  long  as  she  lives." 

The  sharp,  eager  little  gray  eyes,  so  close  together  in 
the  high,  delicate  head,  glanced  up  quickly  at  speaker  and 
hearer. 

"  What  old  lady,  mamma,  away  up  in  Hanover  ?  " 

"  Your  Aunt  Desire,  Daisy,  whom  you  were  named  for. 
She  lives  in  Hanover.  You  are  to  go  and  see  her  there, 
this  summer." 

"  Will  she  call  me  Daisy  ?  " 

The  little  difficulty  suggested  in  this  question  had  sin- 
gularly never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Ledwith  before.  Miss 
Desire  Ledwith  never  came  down  to  Boston ;  there  was 
no  danger  at  home. 

"  No.  She  is  old-fashioned,  and  doesn't  like  pet  names. 
She  will  call  you  Desire.  That  is  your  name,  you  know." 

"  Would  it  signify  if  she  thought  you  called  me  Daisy  ?  " 
asked  the  child  frowning  half  absently  over  her  doll, 
whose  arm  she  was  struggling  to  force  into  rather  a  tight 
sleeve  of  her  own  manufacture. 

"  Well,  perhaps  she  might  not  exactly  understand. 
People  always  went  by  their  names  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  now  hardly  anybody  does.  She  was  very  particular 
about  having  you  called  for  her,  and  you  are,  you  know. 
I  always  write  '  Desire  Ledwith  '  in  all  your  books,  and 
—  well,  I  always  shall  write  it  so,  and  so  will  you.  But 
you  can  be  Daisy  when  we  make  much  of  you  here  at 
home,  just  as  Florence  is  Flossie." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  the  little  girl,  very  decidedly,  get- 
ting up  and  dropping  her  doll.  "  Aunt  Desire,  away  up 
in  Hanover,  is  thinking  all  the  time  that  there  is  a  little 
Desire  Ledwith  growing  up  down  here.  I  don't  mean  to 
have  her  cheated.  I'm  going  to  went  by  my  name,  as  she 


64  REAL    FOLKS. 

did.  Don't  call  me  Daisy  any  more,  all  of  you  ;  for  I 
shan't  come  !  " 

The  gray  eyes  sparkled  ;  the  whole  little  face  scintillated, 
as  it  were.  Desire  Leclwith  had  a  keen,  charged  little  face  ; 
and  when  something  quick  and  strong  shone  through  it,  it 
was  as  if  somewhere  behind  it  there  had  been  struck  fire. 

She  was  true  to  that  through  all  the  years  after ;  going 
to.  school  with  Mabels  and  Ethels  and  Graces  and  Ediths, 
—  not  a  girl  she  knew  but  had  a  pretty  modern  name,  — 
and  they  all  wondering  at  that  stiff  little  "  Desire  "  of  hers 
that  she  would  go  by.  When  she  was  twelve  years  old. 
the  old  lady  up  in  Hanover  had  died,  and  left  her  a 
gold  watch,  large  and  old-fashioned,  which  she  could  only 
keep  on  a  stand  in  her  room,  —  a  good  solid  silver  tea-set, 
and  all  her  spoons,  and  twenty-five  shares  in  the  Hanover 
Bank. 

Mrs.  Megilp  called  her  Daisy,  with  gentle  inadvertence, 
one  day  after  that.  Desire  lifted  her  eyes  slowly  at  her, 
with  no  other  reply  in  her  face,  or  else. 

"  You  might  please  your  mother  now,  I  think,"  said 
Mrs.  Megilp.  "  There  is  no  old  lady  to  be  troubled  by  it." 

"  A  promise  isn't  ever  dead,  Mrs.  Megilp,"  said  Desire, 
briefly.  "  I  shall  keep  our  words." 

"  After  all,"  Mrs.  Megilp  said  privately  to  the  mother, 
"  there  is  something  quietly  aristocratic  in  an  old,  plain, 
family  name.  I  don't  know  that  it  isn't  good  taste  in  the 
child.  Everybody  understands  that  it  was  a  condition, 
and  an  inheritance." 

Mrs.  Megilp  had  taken  care  of  that.  She  was  watchful 
for  the  small  impressions  she  could  make  in  behalf  of  her 
particular  friends.  She  carried  about  with  her  a  little 
social  circumference  in  which  all  was  preeminently  as  it 
should  be. 


AND.  65 

But,  — as  I  would  say  if  you  could  not  see^it  for  your- 
self, —  this  is  a  digression.  We  will  go  back  again. 

"  If  it  were  any  use  ! "  said  Desire,  shaking  out  the 
deep  plaits  as  she  unfastened  them  from  the  band.  "But 
you're  only  a  piece  of  everybody  after  all.  You  haven't 
anything  really  new  or  particular  to  yourself,  when  you've 
done.  And  it  takes  up  so  much  time.  Last  year,  this 
was  so  pretty !  Isn't  anything  actually  pretty  in  itself, 
or  can't  they  settle  what  it  is  ?  I  should  think  they  ha4 
been  at  it  long  enough." 

*'  Fashions  never  were  so  graceful  as  they  are  this  min- 
ute," said  Mrs.  Megilp.  "  Of  course  it  is  art,  like  every- 
thing else,  and  progress.  The  world  is  getting  educated 
to  a  higher  refinement  in  it,  every  day.  Why,  it's  duty, 
child  !  "  she  continued,  exaltedly.  "  Think  what  the  world 
would  be  if  nobody  cared.  We  ought  to  make  life  beauti- 
ful. It's  meant  to  be.  There's  not  only  no  virtue  in  ugli- 
ness, but  almost  no  virtue  with  it,  I  think.  People  are 
more  polite  and  good-natured  when  they  are  well  dressed 
and  comfortable." 

"  That's  dress,  too,  though,"  said  Desire,  sententiously. 
"  You've  got  to  stay  at  home  four  days,  and  rip,  and  be 
tired,  and  cross,  and  tried-on-to,  and  have  no  chance  to  do 
anything  else,  before  you  can  put  it  all  on  and  go  out  and 
be  good-natured  and  bland,  and  help  put  the  beautiful 
face  on  the  world,  one  day.  I  don't  believe  it's  political 
economy." 

"  Everybody  doesn't  have  to  do  it  for  themselves. 
Really,  when  I  hear  people  blamed  for  dress  and  elegance, 
—  why,  the  very  ones  who  have  the  most  of  it  are  those 
who  sacrifice  the  least  time  to  it.  They  just  go  and  order 
what  they  want,  and  there's  the  end  of  it.  When  it 
5 


66  REAL   FOLKS. 

comes  home,  they  put  it  on,  and  it  might  as  well  be  a 
flounced  silk  as  a  plain  calico." 

"  But  we  do  have  to  think,  Mrs.  Megilp.  And  work 
and  worry.  And  then  we  can't  turn  right  round  in  the 
things  we  know  every  stitch  of  and  have  bothered  over 
from  beginning  to  end,  and  just  be  lilies  of  the  field  !  " 

"  A  great  many  people  do  have  to  wash  their  own  dishes, 
and  sweep,  and  scour ;  but  that  is  no  reason  it  ought  not 
to  be  done.  I  always  thought  it  was  rather  a  pity  that 
was  said,  just  so,"  Mrs.  Megilp  proceeded,  with  a  mild 
deprecation  of  the  Scripture.  "  There  is  toiling  and  spin- 
ning ;  and  will  be  to  the  end  of  time,  for  some  of  us." 

"  There's  cauliflower  brought  for  dinner,  Mrs.  Led- 
with,"  said  Christina,  the  parlor  girl,  coming  in.  "  And 
Hannah  says  it  won't  go  with  the  pigeons.  Will  she  put 
it  on  the  ice  for  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith,  absently,  consider- 
ing a  breadth  that  had  a  little  hitch  in  it.  "  Though  what 
we  shall  have  to-morrow  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she 
added,  rousing  up  "  I  wish  Mr.  Ledwith  wouldn't  send 
home  the  first  thing  he  sees,  without  any  reference." 

"  And  here's  the  milkman's  bill,  and  a  letter,"  con- 
tinued Christina,  laying  them  down  on  a  chair  beside  her 
mistress,  and  then  departing. 

Great  things  come  into  life  so  easily,  when  they  do 
come,  right  alongside  of  milk-bills  and  cabbages  !  And 
yet  one  may  wait  so  long  sometimes  for  anything  to  hap- 
pen but  cabbages ! 

The  letter  was  in  a  very  broad,  thick  envelope,  and 
sealed  with  wax. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  looked  at  it  curiously  before  she  opened 
it.  She  did  not  receive  many  letters.  She  had  very 


AND.  67 

little  time  for  correspondence.  It  was  addressed  to  "  Mrs. 
Laura  Ledwith."  That  was  odd  and  unusual,  too. 

Mrs.  Megilp  glanced  at  her  over  the  tortoise-shell  rims 
of  her  eye-glasses,  but  sat  very  quiet,  lest  she  should  de- 
lay the  opening.  She  would  like  to  know  what  could  be 
in  that  very  business-like  looking  despatch,  and  Laura 
would  be  sure  to  tell  her.  It  must  be  something  pretty 
positive,  one  way  or  another  ;  it  was  no  common-place  neg- 
ative communication.  Laura  might  have  had  property 
left  her.  Mrs.  Megilp  always  thought  of  possibilities  like 
that. 

When  Laura  Ledwith  had  unfolded  the  large  commer- 
cial sheet,  and  glanced  down  the  open  lines  of  square,  up- 
right characters,  whose  purport  could  be  taken  in  at  sight, 
like  print,  she  turned  very  red  with  a  sudden  excitement. 
Then  all  the  color  dropped  away,  and  there  was  nothing  in 
her  face  but  blank,  pale,  intense  surprise. 

"  It  is  a  most  wonderful  thing !  "  said  she,  at  last, 
slowly ;  and  her  breath  came  like  a  gasp  with  her  words. 
"  My  great-uncle,  Mr.  Oldways." 

She  spoke  those  four  words  as  if  from  them  Mrs.  Megilp 
could  understand  everything. 

Mrs.  Megilp  thought  she  did. 

"Ah  !     Gone  ?  "  she  asked,  pathetically. 

"  Gone  !  No,  indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ledwith.  "  He 
wrote  the  letter.  He  wants  me  to  come  ;  me,  and  all  of 
us,  —  to  Boston,  to  live  ;  and  to  get  acquainted  with  him." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Megilp,  with  the  promptness  and 
benignity  of  a  Christian  apostle,  "  it's  your  duty  to  go." 

"  And  he  offers  me  a  house,  and  two  thousand  dollars  a 
year." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Megilp,  "  it  is  emphatically  your 
duty  to  go." 


68  REAL   FOLKS. 

All  at  once  something  strange  came  over  Laura  Led- 
with.  She  crumpled  the  letter  tight  in  her  hands  with  a 
clutch  of  quick  excitement,  and  began  to  choke  with  a 
little  sob,  and  to  laugh  at  the  same  time. 

"  Don't  give  way!  "  cried  Mrs.  Megilp,  coming  to  her 
and  giving  her  a  little  shake  and  a  slap.  "  If  you  do  once 
you  will  again,  and  you're  not  hystericky  !  " 

"  He  's  sent  for  Frank,  too.  Frank  and  I  will  be  to- 
gether again  in  dear  old  Boston !  But  —  we  can't  be 
children  and  sit  on  the  shed  any  more ;  and  —  it  isn't 
dear  old  Boston,  either  !  " 

And  then  Laura  gave  right  up,  and  had  a  good  cry  for 
five  minutes.  After  that  she  felt  better,  and  asked  Mrs. 
Megilp  how  she  thought  a  house  in  Spiller  Street  would  do. 

But  she  couldn't  rip  any  more  of  those  breadths  that 
morning. 

Agatha  and  Florence  came  in  from  some  calls  at  the 
Goldthwaites  and  the  Haddens,  and  the  news  was  told, 
and  they  had  their  bonnets  to  take  off,  and  the  dinner-bell 
<rang,  and  the  smell  of  the  spicy  pigeon-stew  came  up  the 
stairs,  all  together.  And  they  went  down,  talking  fast ; 
and  one  said  "  house,"  and  another  "  carpets,"  and 
another  "music  and  German;"  and  Desire,  trailing  a 
breadth  of  green  silk  in  her  hand  that  she  had  never  let 
go  since  the  letter  was  read,  cried  out,  "  oratorios  !  "  And 
nobody  quite  knew  what  they  were  going  down  stairs  for, 
or  had  presence  of  mind  to  realize  the  pigeons,  or  help  each 
other  or  themselves  properly,  when  they  got  there  !  Ex- 
cept Mrs.  Megilp,  who  was  polite  and  hospitable  to  them 
all,  and  picked  two  birds  in  the  most  composed  and  elegant 
manner. 

When  the  dessert  was  put  upon  the  table,  and  Christina, 
confusedly  enlightened  as  to  the  family  excitement,  and  ex- 


AND.  69 

cessively  curious,  had  gone  away  into  the  kitchen,  Mrs. 
Ledwith  said  to  Mrs.  Megilp,  — 

"  I'm  not  sure  I  should  fancy  Spiller  Street,  after  all ;  it's 
a  sort  of  a  corner.  Westmoreland  Street  or  Helvellyn 
Park  might  be  nice.  I  know  people  down  that  way, 
—  Mrs.  Inchdeepe." 

"  Mrs.  Inchdeepe  isn't  exactly  '  people,'  "  said  Mrs.  Me- 
gilp, in  a  quiet  way  that  implied  more  than  grammar. 
"  Don't  get  into  'And '  in  Boston,  Laura  !  — With  such  an 
addition  to  your  income,  and  what  your  uncle  gives  you 
toward  a  house,  I  don't  see  why  you  might  not  think  of 
Republic  Avenue." 

"  We  shall  have  plenty  of  thinking  to  do  about  every- 
thing," said  Laura. 

"Mamma,"  said  Agatha,  insinuatingly,  " I'm  thinking, 
already ;  about  that  rose-pink  paper  for  my  room.  I'm 
glad  now  I  didn't  have  it  here." 

Agatha  had  been  restless  for  white  lace,  and  rose-pink, 
and  a  Brussels  carpet  ever  since  her  friend  Zarah  Thoole 
had  come  home  from  Europe  and  furnished  a  morning-room,. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Grant  Ledwith,  quite  unconscious  of 
the  impending  changes  with  which  his  family  were  so  far 
advanced  in  imagination,  was  busy  among  bales  and  sam- 
ples in  Devonshire  Street.  It  got  to  be  an  old  story  by 
the  time  the  seven  o'clock  train  was  in,  and  he  reached 
home.  It  was  almost  as  if  it  had  all  happened  a  year  ago, 
and  they  had  been  waiting  for  him  to  come  home  from 
Australia. 

There  was  so  much  to  explain  to  him  that  it  was  really 
hard  to  make  him  understand,  and  to  bring  him  up  to  the 
point  from  which  they  could  go  on  together. 


70  REAL   FOLKS. 

VII. 

WAKING   UP. 

THE  Ledwiths  took  apartments  in  Boston  for  a  month. 
They  packed  away  the  furniture  they  wanted  to  keep 

for  upper  rooms,  in  the  attics  of  their  house  at  Z . 

They  had  an  auction  of  all  the  furniture  of  their  drawing- 
room,  dining-room,  library,  and  first  floor  of  sleeping-rooms. 
Then  they  were  to  let  their  house.  Meanwhile,  one  was 
to  be  fixed  upon  and  fitted  up  in  Boston.  In  all  this  Mrs. 
Megilp  advised,  invaluably. 

"  It's  of  no  use  to  move  things,"  she  said.  "  Three  re- 
moves are  as  bad  as  a  fire  ;  and  nothing  ever  fits  in  to  new 
places.  Old  wine  and  new  bottles,  you  know  !  Clear  all 
off  with  a  country  auction.  Everybody  comes,  and  they 
all  fight  for  everything.  Things  bring  more  than  their 
Original  cost.  Then  you've  nothing  to  do  but  order  ac- 
cording to  your  taste." 

Mr.  Oldways  had  invited  both  his  nieces  to  his  own 
house  on  their  arrival.  But  here  again  Mrs.  Megilp  ad- 
vised, —  so  judiciously. 

"  There  are  too  many  of  you  ;  it  would  be  a  positive  in- 
fliction. And  then  you'll  have  all  your  running  about 
and  planning  and  calculating  to  do,  and  the  good  old  gen- 
tleman would  think  he  had  pulled  half  Boston  down  about 
his  e*ars.  Your  sister  can  go  there  ;  it  would  be  only  gen- 
erous and  thoughtful  to  give  way  to  her.  There  are  only 
three  of  them,  and  they  are  strange,  you  know,  to  every- 
thing, and  wouldn't  know  which  way  to  turn.  I  can  put 
you  in  the  way  of  rooms  at  the  Bellevue,  exactly  the 


WAKING   UP.  71 

thing,  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  month.  No  servants,  you 
see ;  meals  at  the  restaurant,  and  very  good,  too.  The 
Wedringtons  are  to  give  them  up  unexpectedly ;  going  to 
Europe  ;  poor  Mrs.  Wedrington  is  so  out  of  health.  And 
about  the  house  ;  don't  decide  in  a  hurry  ;  see  what  your 
uncle  says,  and  your  sister.  It's  veiy  likely  she'll  prefer 
the  Aspen  Street  house  ;  and  it  would  be  out  of  the  way 
for  you.  Still  it  is  not  to  be  refused,  you  know  ;  of  course 
it  is  very  desirable  in  many  respects  ;  roomy,  old-fash- 
ioned, and  a  garden.  I  think  your  sister  will  like  those 
things  ;  they're  what  she  has  been  used  to.  If  she  does, 
why  it's  all  comfortably  settled,  and  nobody  refuses.  It  is 
so  ungracious  to  appear  to  object ;  a  gift  horse,  you  know." 

"  Not  to  be  refused ;  only  by  no  means  to  be  taken  ; 
masterly  inactivity  till  somebody  else  is  hooked  ;  and  then 
somebody  else  is  to  be  grateful  for  the  preference.  I  wish 
Mrs.  Megilp  wouldn't  shine  things  up  so  ;  and  that  mother 
wouldn't  go  to  her  to  black  all  her  boots  !  " 

Desire  said  this  in  secret,  indignant  discomfort,  to 
Helena,  the  fourth  in  the  family,  her  chum-sister.  Helena 
did  very  well  to  talk  to  ;  she  heard  anything  ;  then  she 
pranced  round  the  room  and  chaffed  the  canary. 

"  Chee  !  chee !  chee  !  chiddle,  iddle,  iddle,  iddle,  e-e-ee  ! 
Where  do  you  keep  all  your  noise  and  your  breath  ? 
You're  great,  aren't  you  ?  You  do  that  to  spite  people 
that  have  to  work  up  one  note  at  a  time.  You  don't  take 
it  in  away  down  under  your  belt,  do  you  ?  You're  not  par- 
ticular about  that.  You  don't  know  much,  after  all.  You 
don't  know  how  you  do  it.  You  aren't  learning  of  Madame 
Caroletti.  And  you  haven't  learned  two  quarters,  any 
way.  You  were  only  just  born  last  spring.  Set  up  I 
Tr-r-r-r-e-e-ee  !  I  can  do  that  myself.  I  don't  •  believe 
you've  got  an  octave  in  you.  Poh  !  " 


72  REAL    FOLKS. 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  came  down  from  the  country  with  a 
bonnet  on  that  had  a  crown,  and  with  not  a  particle  of  a 
chignon.  When  she  was  married,  twenty-five  years  before, 
she  wore  a  French  twist,  —  her  hair  turned  up  in  waves 
from  her  neck  as  prettily  as  it  did  away  from  her  forehead, 
—  and  two  thick  coiled  loops  were  knotted  and  fastened 
gracefully  at  the  top.  She  had  kept  on  twisting  her  hair 
so,  all  these  years  ;  and  the  rippling  folds  turned  naturally 
under  her  fingers  into  their  places.  The  color  was  bright 
still,  and  it  had  not  thinned.  Over  her  brows  it  parted 
richly,  with  no  fuzz  or  crimp ;  but  a  sweet  natural  wreath- 
ing look  that  made  her  face  young.  Mrs.  Ledwith  had 
done  hers  over  slate-pencils  till  she  had  burned  it  off;  and 
now  tied  on  a  friz,  that  came  low  down,  for  fashion's  sake, 
and  left  visible  only  a  little  bunch  of  puckers  between  her 
eyebrows  and  the  crowsfeet  at  the  corners.  The  back  of 
her  head  was  weighted  down  by  an  immense  excrescence 
in  a  bag.  Behind  her  ears  were  bare  places.  Mrs.  Led- 
w'ith  began  to  look  old-young.  And  a  woman  cannot  get 
into  a  worse  stage  of  looks  than  that.  Still,  she  was  a 
showy  woman  —  a  good  exponent  of  the  reigning  style  ; 
and  she  was  handsome  —  she  and  her  millinery  —  of  an 
evening,  or  in  the  street. 

When  I  began  that  last  paragraph  I  meant  to  tell  you 
what  else  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  brought  with  her,  down  out  of 
the  country  and  the  old  times ;  but  hair  takes  up  a  deal  of 
room.  She  brought  down  all  her  dear  old  furniture. 
That  is,  it  came  after  her  in  boxes,  when  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  take  the  Aspen  Street  house. 

"  Why,  that's  the  sofa  Oliver  used  to  lie  down  on  when 
he  came  home  tired  from  his  patients ;  and  that's  the  rock 
ing-chair  I  nursed  my  babies  in ;  and  this  is  the  old  oak 
table  we've  sat  round  three  times  a  day,  the  family  of  us, 


WAKING   UP.  73 

growing  and  thinning,  as  the  time  went  on,  all  through 
these  years.  It's  like  a  communion  table,  now,  Laura. 
Of  course  such  things  had  to  come." 

This  was  what  she  answered,  when  Laura  ejaculated  her 
amazement  at  her  having  brought  "  old  Homesworth 
truck  "  to  Boston. 

"  You  see  it  isn't  the  walls  that  make  the  home ;  we 
can  go  away  from  them  and  not  break  our  hearts,  so  long 
as  our  own  goes  with  us.  The  little  things  that  we  have 
used,  and  that  have  grown  around  us  with  our  living,  — 
they  are  all  of  living  that  we  can  handle  and  hold  on  to ; 
and  if  I  went  to  Spitzbergen,  I  should  take  as  many  of 
them  as  I  could." 

The  Aspen  Street  house  just  suited  Mrs.  Ripwinkley, 
and  Diana,  and  Hazel. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  wooden ;  built  side  to  the 
street,  so  that  you  went  up  a  little  paved  walk,  in  a  shade 
of  trees,  to  get  to  the  door ;  and  then  the  yard,  on  the 
right  hand  side  as  you  came  in,  was  laid  out  in  narrow 
walks  between  borders  of  blossoming  plants.  There  were 
vines  against  the  brick  end  of  the  next  building,  — 
creepers  and  morning-glories,  and  white  and  scarlet  run- 
ners ;  and  a  little  martin-box  was  set  upon  a  pole  in  the 
still,  farther  corner. 

The  rooms  of  the  house  were  low,  but  large ;  and  some 
of  the  windows  had  twelve-paned  sashes,  —  twenty-four  to 
a  window.  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  charmed  with  these  also. 
They  were  like  the  windows  at  Mile  Hill. 

Mrs.  Ledwith,  although  greatly  relieved  by  her  sister's 
prompt  decision  for  the  house  which  she  did  not  want,  felt 
it  in  her  conscience  to  remonstrate  a  little. 

"  You  have  just  come  down  from  the  mountains,  Frank, 
after  your  twenty-five  years'  sleep  ;  you've  seen  nothing  ; 


74  REAL   FOLKS. 

by  and  by  you  will  think  differently.  This  house  is  fear- 
fully old-fashioned,  fearfully  ;  and  it's  away  down  here  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  hill.  You  can  never  get  up  over 
Summit  Street  from  here." 

"  We  are  used  to  hills,  and  walking." 

"  But  I  mean  —  that  isn't  all.  There  are  other  things 
you  won't  be  able  to  get  over.  You'll  never  shake  off 
Aspen  Street  dust,  —  you  nor  the  children." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  dusty.  It  is  quiet,  and  sheltered, 
and  clean.  I  like  it  ever  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley. 

"  O,  dear,  you  don't  understand  in  the  least !  It's 
wicked  to  let  you  go  on  so !  You  poor,  dear,  simple  little 
old  soul!" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Megilp.  "It's  all  well  enough 
for  the  present.  It  pleases  the  old  gentleman,  you  know  ; 
and  after  all  he's  done,  he  ought  to  be  pleased.  One  of 
you  should  certainly  be  in  his  neighborhood.  He  has  been 
here  from  time  immemorial ;  and  any  place  grows  respect- 
able by  staying  in  it  long  enough  —  from  choice.  Nobody 
will  wonder  at  Mrs.  Ripwinkley's  coming  here  at  his 
request.  And  when  she  does  move,  you  see,  she  will  know 
exactly  what  she  is  about." 

"  I  almost  doubt  if  she  ever  will  know  what  she  is 
about,"  said  Laura. 

"In  that  case,  —  well,"  —  said  Mrs.  Megilp,  and  stopped, 
because  it  really  was  not  in  the  least  needful  to  say  more. 

Mrs.  Megilp  felt  it  judicious,  for  many  reasons,  that 
Mrs.  Ripwinkley  should  be  hidden  away  for  awhile,  to 
get  that  mountain  sleep  out  of  her  eyes,  if  it  should  prove 
possible ;  just  as  we  rub  old  metal  with  oil  and  put  it  by 
till  the  rust  comes  off. 

The  Ledwiths  decided  upon  a  house  in  Shubarton  Place ; 
that  would  not  seem  quite  like  taking  old  Uncle  Titus's 


WAKING   UP.  75 

money  and  rushing  away  with  it  as  far  as  city  limits  would 
allow  ;  and  Laura  really  did  wish  to  have  the  comfort  of 
her  sister's  society,  in  a  cozy  way,  of  mornings,  up  in  her 
room ;  that  was  her  chief  idea  about  it.  There  were  a 
good  many  times  and  things  in  which  she  scarcely  expected 
much  companionship  from  Frank.  She  would  not  have 
said  even  to  herself,  that  Frank  was  rusty ;  and  she  would 
do  her  faithful  and  good-natured  best  to  rub  her  up  ;  but 
there  was  an  instinct  with  her  of  the  congruous  and  the 
incongruous  ;  and  she  would  not  do  her  Bath-brick  polish- 
ing out  on  the  public  promenade. 

They  began  by  going  together  to  the  carpet  stores  and 
the  paper  warehouses ;  but  they  ended  in  detailing  them- 
selves for  separate  work ;  their  ideas  clashed  ridiculously, 
and  perpetually  confused  each  other.  Frank  remembered 
loyally  her  old  brown  sofa  and  chairs  ;  she  would  not  have 
gay  colors  to  put  them  out  of  countenance  ;  for  even  if 
she  re-covered  them,  she  said  they  should  have  the  same 
old  homey  complexion.  So  she  chose  a  fair,  soft  buff,  with 
a  pattern  of  brown  leaves,  for  her  parlor  paper ;  Mrs. 
Ledwith,  meanwhile,  plunging  headlong  into  glories  of 
crimson  and  garnet  and  gold.  Agatha  had  her  blush  pink, 
in  panels,  with  heart-of-rose  borders,  set  on  with  delicate 
gilt  headings  ;  you  would  have  thought  she  was  going  to 
put  herself  up,  in  a  fancy-box,  like  a  French  mouchoir  or 
a  bonbon. 

"Why  don't  you  put  your  old  brown  things  all  to- 
gether in  an  up-stairs  room,  and  call  it  Mile  Hill  ?  You 
could  keep  it  for  old  times'  sake,  and  sit  there  mornings ; 
the  house  is  big  enough ;  and  then  have  furniture  like 
other  people's  in  the  parlor  ?  " 

"  You  see  it  wouldn't  be  me"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley, 
simply. 


76  REAL    POLKS. 

"  They  keep  saying  it  '  looks,'  and  '  it  looks,'  said  Diana 
to  her  mother,  at  home.  "  Why  must  everything  look 
somehow  ?  " 

"  And  everybody,  too,"  said  Hazel.  "  Why,  when  we 
meet  any  one  in  the  street  that  Agatha  and  Florence  know, 
the  minute  they  have  gone  by  they  say,  '  She  didn't  look 
well  to-day,'  or,  *  How  pretty  she  did  look  in  that  new 
hat ! '  And  after  the  great  party  they  went  to  at  that  Miss 
Hitchler's,  they  never  told  a  word  about  it  except  how 
girls  *  looked.'  I  wonder  what  they  did,  or  where  the  good 
time  was.  Seems  to  me  people  ain't  living,  —  they  are 
only  just  looking  ;  or  is  this  the  same  old  Boston  that  you 
told  about,  and  where  are  the  real  folks,  mother  ?  " 

"  We  shall  find  them,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  cheerily  ; 
"  and  the  real  of  these,  too,  when  the  outsides  are  settled. 
In  the  meantime,  we'll  make  our  house  say,  and  not  look. 
Say  something  true,  of  course.  Things  won't  say  anything 
else,  you  see  ;  if  you  try  to  make  them,  they  don't  speak 
out;  they  only  stand  in  a  dumb  show  and  make  faces." 

"  That's  looking !  "  said  Hazel.     "  Now  I  know." 

"  How  those  children  do  grow  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley, 
as  they  went  off  together.  "  Two  months  ago  they  were 
sitting  out  on  the  kitchen  roof,  and  coming  to  me  to  hear 
the  old  stories ! " 

"  Transplantin',"  said  Luclarion.     "  That's  done  it." 

At  twelve  and  fourteen,  Hazel  and  Diana  could  be  sim- 
ple as  birds,  —  simpler  yet,  as  human  children  waiting  for 
all  things,  —  in  their  country  life  and  their  little  dreams  of 
the  world.  Two  months'  contact  with  people  and  things 
in  a  great  city  had  started  the  life  that  was  in  them,  so 
that  it  showed  what  manner  of  growth  it  was  to  be  of. 

And  little  Hazel  Ripwinkley  had  got  hold  already  of  the 
small  end  of  a  very  large  problem. 


WAKING   UP.  77 

But  she  could  not  make  it  out  that  this  was  the  same  old 
Boston  that  her  mother  had  told  about,  or  where  the  nice 
neighbors  were  that  would  be  likely  to  have  little  tea-par- 
ties for  their  children. 


78  REAL    FOLKS. 

VIII. 

EAVESDROPPING    IN    ASPEN    STREET. 

SOME  of  the  old  builders,  —  not  the  very  old  ones,  for 
they  built  nothing  but  rope-walks  down  behind  the 
hill,  —  but  some  of  those  who  began  to  go  northwest  from 
the  State  House  to  live,  made  a  pleasant  group  of  streets 
down  there  on  the  level  stretching  away  to  the  river,  and 
called  them  by  fresh,  fragrant,  country  —  suggesting  names. 
Names  of  trees  and  fields  and  gardens,  fruits  and  blossoms ; 
and  they  built  houses  with  gardens  around  them.  In  be- 
tween the  blocks  were  deep,  shady  places  ;  and  the  smell 
of  flowers  was  tossed  back  and  forth  by  summer  winds  be- 
tween the  walls.  Some  nice  old  people  stayed  on  there, 
and  a  few  of  their  descendants  stay  on  there  still,  though 
they  are  built  in  closely  now,  for  the  most  part,  and  coarse, 
common  things  have  much  intruded,  and  Summit  Street 
overshadows  them  with  its  palaces. 

Here  and  there  a  wooden  house,  set  back  a  little,  like 
this  of  the  Ripwinkleys  in  Aspen  Street,  gives  you  a  feel- 
ing of  Boston  in  the  far  back  times,  as  you  go  by ;  and 
here  and  there,  if  you  could  get  into  the  life  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, you  might  perhaps  find  a  household  keeping  itself 
almost  untouched  with  change,  though  there  has  been  such 
a  rush  and  surge  for  years  up  and  over  into  the  newer  and 
prouder  places. 

At  any  rate,  Titus  Oldways  lived  here  in  Greenley 
Street;  and  he  owned  the  Aspen  Street  house,  and  an- 
other over  in  Meadow  Place,  and  another  in  Field  Court. 
He  meant  to  stretch  his  control  over  them  as  long  as  he 


EATESDROPPING   IN   ASPEN   STREET.  79 

could,  and  keep  them  for  families ;  therefore  he  valued  them 
at  such  rates  as  they  would  bring  for  dwellings  ;  he  would 
not  sell  or  lease  them  for  any  kind  of  "  improvements  ;  " 
he  would  not  have  their  little  door-yards  choked  up,  or  their 
larger  garden  spaces  destroyed,  while  he  could  help  it. 

Round  in  Orchard  Street  lived  Miss  Craydocke.  She 
was  away  again,  now,  staying  a  little  while  with  the  Jos- 
selyns  in  New  York.  Uncle  Titus  told  Mrs.  Ripwinkley 
that  when  Miss  Craydocke  came  back  it  would  be  a  neigh- 
borhood, and  they  could  go  round ;  now  it  was  only  back 
and  forth  between  them  and  him  and  Rachel  Froke. 
There  were  other  people,  too,  but  they  would  be  longer 
finding  them  out.  "  You'll  know  Miss  Craydocke  as  soon 
as  you  see  her ;  she  is  one  of  those  you  always  seem  to 
have  seen  before." 

Now  Uncle"  Titus  would  not  have  said  this  to  every- 
body ;  not  even  if  everybody  had  been  his  niece,  and  had 
come  to  live  beside  him. 

Orchard  Street  is  wide  and  sunny  and  pleasant ;  the 
river  air  comes  over  it  and  makes  it  sweet ;  and  Miss 
Craydocke's  is  a  big,  generous  house,  of  which  she  only 
uses  a  very  little  part  herself,  because  she  lets  the  rest  to 
nice  people  who  want  pleasant  rooms  and  can't  afford  to 
pay  much  rent ;  an  old  gentleman  who  has  had  a  hard 
time  in  the  world,  but  has  kept  himself  a  gentleman  through 
it  all,  and  his  little  cheery  old  lady-wife  who  puts  her 
round  glasses  on  and  stitches  away  at  fine  women's  under- 
garments and  flannel  embroideries,  to  keep  things  even, 
have  the  two  very  best  rooms ;  and  a  clergyman's  widow, 
who  copies  for  lawyers,  and  writes  little  stories  for  children, 
has  another  ;  and  two  orphan  sisters  who  keep  school  have 
another ;  and  Miss  Craydocke  calls  her  house  the  Beehive, 
and  buzzes  up  and  down  in  it,  and  out  and  in,  on  little 


80  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  seeing-to  "  errands  of  care  and  kindness  all  day  long,  as 
never  any  queen-bee  did  in  any  beehive  before,  but  in  a 
way  that  makes  her  more  truly  queen  than  any  sitting  in 
the  middle  cell  of  state  to  be  fed  on  royal  jelly.  Behind 
the  Beehive,  is  a  garden,  as  there  should  be  ;  great  patches 
of  lily-of-the  valley  grow  there  that  Miss  Craydocke  ties  up 
bunches  from  in  the  spring  and  gives  away  to  little  children, 
and  carries  into  all  the  sick  rooms  she  knows  of,  and  the 
poor  places.  I  always  think  of  those  lilies  of  the  valley 
when  I  think  of  Miss  Craydocke.  It  seems  somehow  as  if 
they  were  blooming  about  her  all  the  year  through ;  and 
so  they  are,  perhaps,  invisibly.  The  other  flowers  come 
in  their  season  ;  the  crocuses  have  been  done  with  first  of 
all ;  the  gay  tulips  and  the  snowballs  have  made  the  chil- 
dren glad  when  they  stopped  at  the  gate  and  got  them, 
going  to  school.  Miss  Craydocke  is  always  out  in  her 
garden  at  school-time.  By  and  by  there  are  the  tall  white 
lilies,  standing  cool  and  serene  in  the  July  heats;  then 
Miss  Craydocke  is  away  at  the  mountains,  pressing  ferns 
and  drying  grasses  for  winter  parlors ;  but  there  is  some- 
body on  duty  at  the  garden  dispensary  always,  and  there 
are  flower-pensioners  who  know  they  may  come  in  and 
take  the  gracious  toll. 

Late  in  the  autumn,  the  nasturtiums  and  verbenas  and 
marigolds  are  bright ;  and  the  asters  quill  themselves  into 
the  biggest  globes  they  can,  of  white  and  purple  and  rose, 
is  if  it  were  to  make  the  last  glory  the  best,  and  to  do  the 
very  utmost  of  the  year.  Then  the  chrysanthemums  go 
into  the  house  and  bloom  there  for  Christmas-time. 

There  is  nothing  else  like  Miss  Craydocke's  house  and 
garden,  I  do  believe,  in  all  the  city  of  the  Three  Hills. 
It  is  none  too  big  for  her,  left  alone  with  it,  the  last  of  her 
family;  the  world  is  none  too  big  for  her;  she  is  glad  to 


EAVESDROPPING   IN   ASPEN   STREET.  81 

know  it  is  all  there.  She  has  a  use  for  everything  as  fast 
as  it  comes,  and  a  work  to  do  for  everybody,  as  fast  as  she 
finds  them  out.  And  everybody,  —  almost,  —  catches  it  as 
she  goes  along,  and  around  her  there  is  always  springing  up 
a  busy  and  a  spreading  crystallizing  of  shining  and  blessed 
elements.  The  world  is  none  too  big  for  her,  or  for  any 
such,  of  course,  because,  —  it  has  been  told  why  better  than 
I  can  tell  it,  — because  "  ten  times  one  is  always  ten." 

It  was  a  gray,  gusty  morning.  It  had  not  set  in  to  rain 
continuously ;  but  the  wind  wrung  handfuls  of  drops  sud- 
denly from  the  clouds,  and  flung  them  against  the  panes 
and  into  the  wayfarers'  faces. 

Over  in  the  house  opposite  the  Ripwinkley's,  at  the 
second  story  windows,  sat  two  busy  young  persons.  Hazel, 
sitting  at  her  window,  in  "  mother's  room,"  where  each 
had  a  corner,  could  see  across ;  and  had  got  into  the  way 
of  innocent  watching.  Up  in  Homesworth,  she  had  used  to 
watch  the  robins  in  the  elm-trees  ;  here,  there  was  human 
life,  in  little  human  nests,  all  about  her. 

"  It's  the  same  thing,  mother,"  she  would  say,  "  isn't  it, 
now  ?  Don't  you  remember  in  that  book  of  the  "  New 
England  Housekeeper,"  that  you  used  to  have,  what  the 
woman  said  about  the  human  nature  of  the  beans  ?  It's  in 
beans,  and  birds,  and  bird's  nests ;  and  folks,  and  folks' 
nests.  It  don't  make  much  difference.  It's  just  snugness, 
and  getting  along.  And  it's  so  nice  to  see  !  " 

Hazel  put  her  elbows  up  on  the  window-sill,  and  looked 
straight  over  into  that  opposite  room,  undisguisedly. 

The  young  man,  in  one  window,  said  to  his  sister  in  the 
other,  at  the  same  moment,  — 

"  Our  company's  come  !  There's  that  bright  little  girl 
again  !  " 

And  the  sister  said,  "  Well,  it's  pretty  much  all  the  com- 

6 


82  REAL    FOLKS. 

pany  we  can  take  in  !  She  brings  her  own  seat  and  her 
own  window  ;  and  she  doesn't  interrupt.  It's  just  the  kind 
for  us,  Kentie  !  " 

"  She's  writing,  —  copying  something,  —  music,  it  looks 
like  ;  see  it  there,  set  up  against  the  shutter.  She  always 
goes  out  with  a  music  roll  in  her  hand.  I  wonder  whether 
she  gives  or  takes  ?  "  said  Diana,  stopping  on  her  way  to 
her  own  seat  to  look  out  over  Hazel's  shoulder. 

"  Both,  I  guess,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley.  "  Most  people 
do.  Why  don't  you  put  your  flowers  in  the  window, 
Hazel  ?  " 

"  Why,  so  I  will !  " 

They  were  a  great  bunch  of  snowy  white  and  deep 
crimson  asters,  with  green  ivy  leaves,  in  a  tall  gray  glass 
vase.  Rachel  Froke  had  just  brought  them  in  from  Miss 
Craydocke's  garden. 

"  They're  looking,  mother  !  Only  I  do  think  it's  half  too 
bad  !  That  girl  seems  as  if  she  would  almost  reach  across 
after  them.  Perhaps  they  came  from  the  country,  and 
haven't  had  any  flowers." 

"  Thee  might  take  them  over  some,"  said  Mrs.  Froke, 
simply. 

"  O,  I  shouldn't  dare !  There  are  other  people  in  the 
house,  and  I  don't  know  their  names,  or  anything.  I  wish 
I  could,  though." 

"I  can,"  said  Rachel  Froke.  "  Thee'll  grow  tall 
enough  to  step  over  pebbles  one  of  these  days.  Never 
mind  ;  I'll  fetch  thee  more  to-morrow ;  and  thee'll  let  the 
vase  go  for  a  while  ?  Likely  they've  nothing  better  than 
a  tumbler." 

Rachel  Froke  went  down  the  stairs,  and  out  along  the 
paved  walk,  into  the  street.  She  stopped  an  instant  on  the 
curb-stone  before  she  crossed,  and  looked  up  at  those 


HAZEL  AT  THE  WINDOW.    boep.  oil. 


EAVESDROPPING   IN   ASPEN   STREET.  83 

second  story  windows.  Hazel  watched  her.  She  held  up 
the  vase  slightly  with  one  hand,  nodding  her  little  gray 
bonnet  kindly,  and  beckoned  with  the  other. 

The  young  girl  started  from  her  seat. 

In  another  minute  Hazel  saw  them  together  in  the  door- 
way. 

There  was  a  blush  and  a  smile,  and  an  eager  brightness 
in  the  face,  and  a  quick  speaking  thanks,  that  one  could 
read  without  hearing,  from  the  parted  lips,  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  quiet,  unflutterable  gray  bonnet  calmly  horizontal 
on  the  other;  and  then  the  door  was  shut,  and  Rachel 
Froke  was  crossing  the  damp  pavement  again. 

"  I'm  so  glad  Aspen  Street  is  narrow  !  "  said  Hazel. 
"  I  should  hate  to  be  way  off  out  of  sight  of  people. 
What  did  you  say  to  her,  Mrs.  Froke  ?  "  she  asked,  as  the 
Friend  reentered.  Hazel  could  by  no  means  take  the 
awful  liberty  of  "  Rachel." 

"  I  said  the  young  girl,  Hazel  Ripwinkley,  being  from 
the  country,  knew  how  good  flowers  were  to  strangers  in 
the  town,  and  that  she  thought  they  might  be  strange,  and 
might  like  some." 

Hazel  flushed  all  up.  At  that  same  instant,  a  gentle 
nod  and  smile  came  across  from  window  to  window,  and 
she  flushed  more,  till  the  tears  sprung  with  the  shy,  glad 
excitement,  as  she  returned  it  and  then  shrunk  away. 

"  And  she  said,  '  Thank  her,  with  Dorris  Kincaid's 
love,'  "  proceeded  Rachel  Froke. 

"  O,  mother!  exclaimed  Hazel.  "And  you  did  it  all, 
right  off  so,  Mrs.  Froke.  I  don't  see  how  grown  up 
people  dare,  and  know  how  !  " 

Up  the  stairs  ran  quick  feet  in  little  clattering  heeled 
boots.  Desire  Ledwith,  with  a  purple  waterproof  on, 
came  in. 


84  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  I  couldn't  stay  at  home  to-day,"  she  said,  "  I  wanted 
to  be  where  it  was  all-togetherish.  It  never  is  at  our 
house.  Now  it's  set  up,  they  don't  do  anything  with  it." 

"  That's  because  it  '  looks  '  —  so  elegant,"  said  Hazel, 
catching  herself  up  in  dismay. 

"  It's  because  it's  the  crust,  I  think,"  said  Desire.  "  Puff 
paste,  like  an  oyster  patty ;  and  they  haven't  got  anything 
cooked  yet  for  the  middle.  I  wonder  when  they  will.  I 
had  a  call  yesterday,  all  to  myself,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
sudden  change  of  tone  and  topic.  "  Agatha  was  hopping  ! 
and  I  wouldn't  tell  her  what  I  said,  or  how  I  behaved. 
That  new  parlor  girl  of  ours  thinks  we're  all  or  any  of  us 
'  Miss  Ledwith,'  mamma  included,  and  so  she  let  him  in. 
He  had  on  lavender  pantaloons  and  a  waxed  moustache." 

"  The  rain  is  just  pouring  down  !  "  said  Diana,  at  the 
garden  window. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  caught.  That's  what  I  meant,"  said  Desire. 
"  You  've  got  to  keep  me  all  day,  now.  How  will  you  get 
home,  Mrs.  Froke  ?  Or  won't  you  have  to  stay,  too  ?  " 

"  Thee  may  call  me  Rachel,  Desire  Ledwith,  if  thee 
pleases.  I  like  it  better.  I  am  no  mistress.  And  for 
getting  home,  it  is  but  just  round  the  corner.  But  there 
is  no  need  yet.  I  came  for  an  hour,  to  sit  here  with  friend 
Frances.  And  my  hour  is  not  yet  up." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,  for  there  is  something  I  want  you  to 
tell  me.  I  haven't  quite  got  at  it  myself,  yet ;  so  as  to  ask, 
I  mean.  Wait  a  minute  !  "  And  she  put  her  elbows  up  on 
her  knees,  and  held  her  thumbs  against  her  ears,  and  her 
fingers  across  her  forehead ;  sitting  squarely  opposite  the 
window  to  which  she  had  drawn  up  her  chair  beside  Diana, 
and  looking  intently  at  the  driving  streams  that  rushed  and 
ran  down  against  the  glass. 

"I  was  sitting  in  the   bay-window  at  home,  when  it 


EAVESDROPPING   IN    ASPEN   STREET.  85 

began  this  morning  ;  that  made  me  think.  All  the  world 
dripping  wet,  and  I  just  put  there  dry  and  safe  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  storm,  shut  up  behind  those  great  clear  panes 
and  tight  sashes.  How  they  did  have  to  contrive,  and 
work,  before  there  were  such  places  made  for  people  ! 
What  if  they  had  got  into  their  first  scratchy  little  houses, 
and  sat  behind  the  logs  as  we  do  behind  glass  windows ; 
and  thought,  as  I  was  thinking,  how  nice  it  was  just  to  be 
covered  up  from  the  rain  ?  Is  it  all  finished  now  ?  Hasn't 
anybody  got  to  contrive  anything  more  ?  And  who's 
going  to  do  it  —  and  everything.  And  what  are  we 
good  for,  — just  we,  —  to  come  and  expect  it  all,  modern- 
improved!  I  don't  think  much  of  our  place  among 
things,  do  you,  Mrs.  Froke  ?  —  There,  I  believe  that's-  it, 
as  near  as  I  can  !  " 

"  Why  does  thee  ask  me,  Desire  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  any  whys  or  what  fors. 
'  Behold  we  know  not  anything,'  —  Tennyson  and  I ! 
But  you  seem  so  —  pacified  —  I  suppose  I  thought  you 
must  have  settled  most  things  in  your  mind." 

"  Every  builder  —  every  little  joiner  —  did  his  piece, 
—  thought  his  thought  out,  I  think  likely.  There's  no 
little  groove  or  moulding  or  fitting  or  finish,  but  is  a  bit  of 
somebody's  living ;  and  life  grows,  going  on.  We've  all 
got  our  piece  to  do,"  said  Rachel. 

"  I  asked  Mrs.  Mig,"  Desire  pursued,  "  and  she  said 
some  people's  part  was  to  buy  and  employ  and  encourage  ; 
and  that  spending  money  helps  all  the  world ;  and  then 
she  put  another  cushion  to  her  back,  and  went  on  tat- 
ting." 

"Perhaps  it  does  —  in  spite  of  the  world,"  said  Rachel 
Froke,  quietly. 

"  But  I  guess  nobody  is  to  sit  by  and  only  encourage  ; 


86  REAL    FOLKS. 

God  has  given  out  no  such  portion  as  that,  I  do  believe. 
We  can  encourage  each  other,  and  every  one  do  his  own 
piece  too." 

"  I  didn't  really  suppose  Mrs.  Mig  knew,"  said  Desire, 
demurely.  "  She  never  began  at  the  bottom  of  anything. 
She  only  finishes  off.  She  buys  pattern  worsted  work, 
and  fills  it  in.  That's  what  she's  doing  now,  when  she 
don't  tat ;  a  great  bunch  of  white  lilies,  grounding  it 
with  olive.  It's  lovely ;  but  I'd  rather  have  made  the 
lilies.  She'll  give  it  to  mother,  and  then  Glossy  will 
come  and  spend  the  winter  with  us.  Mrs.  Mig  is  going  to 
Nassau  with  a  sick  friend  ;  she  's  awfully  useful  —  for  little 
overseeings  and  general  touchings  up,  after  all  the  hard 
part  is  done.  Mrs.  Mig's  sick  friends  always  have  nurses 

and  waiting  maids  —  Mrs.  F Rachel !  Do  you  know, 

I  haven't  got  any  piece  !  " 

"  No,  I  don't  know ;  nor  does  thee  either,  yet,"  said 
Rachel  Froke. 

"  It's  all  such  bosh  !  "  said  Kenneth  Kincaid,  flinging 
down  a  handful  of  papers.  "  I've  no  right,  I  solemnly  think, 
to  help  such  stuff  out  into  the  world !  A  man  can't  take 
hold  anywhere,  it  seems,  without  smutting  his  fingers  !  " 

Kenneth  Kincaid  was  correcting  proof  for  a  publisher. 
What  he  had  to  work  on  this  morning  was  the  first  chapters 
of  a  flimsy  novel. 

"  It  isn't  even  confectionery,"  said  he.  "  It's  terra 
alba  and  cochineal.  And  when  it  conies  to  the  sensation, 
it  will  be  benzine  for  whiskey.  Real  things  are  bad  enough, 
for  the  most  part,  in  this  world  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  sham 
fictions  and  adulterated  poisons,  Dorris,  I'd  rather  help 
bake  bread,  if  it  were  an  honest  loaf,  or  make  strong  shoes 
for  laboring  men  !  " 


EAVESDROPPING   IN   ASPEN   STREET.  87 

"  You  don't  always  get  things  like  that,"  said  Dorris. 
"  And  you  know  you're  not  responsible.  Why  will  you 
torment  yourself  so  ?  " 

"  I  was  so  determined  not  to  do  anything  but  genuine 
work  ;  work  that  the  world  wanted ;  and  to  have  it  come 
down  to  this !  " 

"  Only  for  a  time,  while  you  are  waiting." 

"  Yes ;  people  must  eat  while  they  are  waiting  ;  that's 
the  —  devil  of  it !  I'm  not  swearing,  Dorris,  dear  ;  it 
came  truly  into  my  head,  that  minute,  about  the  Tempta- 
tion in  the  Wilderness."  Kenneth's  voice  was  reverent, 
saying  this  ;  and  there  was  an  earnest  thought  in  his  face. 

"  You'll  never  like  anything  heartily  but  your  Sunday 
work." 

"  That's  what  keeps  me  here.  My  week-day  work 
might  be  wanted  somewhere  else.  And  perhaps  I  ought 
to  go.  There's  Sunday  work  everywhere." 

"  If  you've  found  one  half,  hold  on  to  it ;  "  said  Dorris. 
"  The  other  can't  be  far  off." 

"  I  suppose  there  are  a  score  or  two  of  young  architects 
in  this  city,  waiting  for  a  name  or  a  chance  to  make  one, 
as  I  am.  If  it  isn't  here  for  all  of  them,  somebody  has 
got  to  quit." 

"  And  somebody  has  got  to  hold  on,"  repeated  Dorris. 
"  You  are  morbid,  Kent,  about  this  '  work  of  the  world.' ' 

"  It's  overdone,  everywhere.  Fifth  wheels  trying  to 
hitch  on  to  every  coach.  I'd  rather  be  the  one  wheel  of 
a  barrow." 

"  The  Lord  is  Wheelwright,  and  Builder,"  said  Dorris, 
very  simply.  "  You  are  a  wheel,  and  He  has  made  you  ; 
He'll  find  an  axle  for  you  and  put  you  on  ;  and  you  shall 
go  about  his  business,  so  that  you  shall  wonder  to  remem- 
ber that  you  were  ever  leaning  up  against  a  wall.  Do  you 


88  REAL   FOLKS. 

know,  Kentie,  life  seems  to  me  like  the  game  we  used  to 
play  at  home  in  the  twilight.  When  we  shut  our  eyes 
and  let  each  other  lead  us,  until  we  did  not  know  where 
we  were  going,  or  in  what  place  we  should  come  out.  I 
should  not  care  to  walk  up  a  broad  patli  with  my  eyes 
wide  open,  now.  I'd  rather  feel  the  leading.  To-morrow 
always  makes  a  turn.  It's  beautiful !  People  don't  know, 
who  never  shut  their  eyes  !  " 

Kenneth  had  taken  up  a  newspaper. 

"  The  pretenses  at  doing !  The  dodges  and  go-betweens 
that  make  a  sham  work  between  every  two  real  ones  ! 
There's  hardly  a  true  business  carried  on,  and  if  there  is, 
you  don't  know  where  or  which.  Look  at  the  advertise- 
ments. Why,  they  cheat  with  their  very  tops  and  faces ! 
See  this  man  who  puts  in  big  capitals :  *  Lost !  85,000  ! 
$1,000  reward  ! '  and  then  tells  you,  in  small  type,  that 
five  thousand  dollars  are  lost  every  year  by  breaking  glass 
and  china,  that  his  cement  will  mend  !  What  business  has 
he  to  cry  '  Wolf ! '  to  the  hindrance  of  the  next  man  who 
may  have  a  real  wolf  to  catch  ?  And  what  business  has  the 
printer,  whom  the  next  man  will  pay  to  advertise  his  loss, 
to  help  on  a  lie  like  this  beforehand  ?  I'm  only  twenty-six 
years  old,  D orris,  and  I'm  getting  ashamed  of  the  world  !  " 

"  Don't  grow  hard,  Kenneth.  '  The  Son  of  Man  came 
not  to  condemn  the  world,  but  to  save  it.'  Let's  each  try 
to  save  our  little  piece  !  " 

We  are  listening  across  the  street,  you  see  ;  between 
the  windows  in  the  rain;  it  is  strange  what  chords  one 
catches  that  do  not  catch  each  other,  and  were  never 
planned  to  be  played  together,  —  by  the  players. 

Kenneth  Kincaid's  father  Robert  had  been  a  ship-builder. 
When  shipping  went  down  in  the  whirlpool  of  1857,  Rob- 
ert Kincaid's  building  had  gone  ;  and  afterward  he  had 


EAVESDROPPING   IN   ASPEN    STREET.  89 

died  leaving  his  children  little  beside  their  education, 
which  he  thanked  God  was  secured,  and  a  good  repute 
that  belonged  to  their  name,  but  was  easily  forgotten  in 
the  crowd  of  young  and  forward  ones,  and  in  the  strife 
and  scramble  of  a  new  business  growth. 

Between  college  and  technical  studies  Kenneth  had 
been  to  the  war.  After  that  he  had  a  chance  to  make  a 
fortune  in  Wall  Street.  His  father's  brother,  James,  of- 
fered to  take  him  in  with  him,  to  buy  and  sell  stocks  and 
gold,  to  watch  the  market,  to  touch  little  unseen  'springs, 
to  put  the  difference  into  his  own  pocket  every  time  the 
tide  of  value  shifted,  or  could  be  made  to  seem  to  shift. 
He  might  have  been  one  of  James  R.  Kincaid  and  Com- 
pany. He  would  have  none  of  it.  He  told  his  uncle 
plainly  that  he  wanted  real  work ;  that  he  had  not  come, 
back  from  fighting  to  —  well,  there  he  stopped,  for  he 
could  not  fling  the  truth  in  his  uncle's  face  ;  he  said  there 
were  things  he  meant  to  finish  learning,  and  would  try  to 
do  ;  and  if  nobody  wanted  them  of  him  he  would  learn 
something  else  that  was  needed.  So  with  what  was  left 
to  his  share  from  his  father's  little  remnant  of  property,  he 
had  two  years  at  the  Technological  School,  and  here  he 
was  in  Boston  waiting.  You  can  see  what  he  meant  by 
real  work,  and  how  deep  his  theories  and  distinctions  lay. 
You  can  see  that  it  might  be  a  hard  thing  for  one  young 
man,  here  or  there,  to  take  up  the  world  on  these  terms 
now,  in  this  year  of  our  Lord  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
nine. 

Over  the  way  Desire  Ledwith  was  beginning  again, 
after  a  pause  in  which  we  have  made  our  little  chasse'e. 

"  I  know  a  girl,"  she  said,  "  who  has  got  a  studio. 
And  she  talks  about  art,  and  she  knows  styles,  and  who 
has  done  what,  and  she  runs  about  to  see  pictures,  and 


90  REAL    FOLKS. 

she  copies  things,  and  she  has  little  plaster  legs  and  toes 
and  things  hanging  round  everywhere.  She  thinks  it  is 
something  great ;  but  it 's  only  Mig,  after  all.  Everything 
is.  Florence  Migs  into  music.  And  I  won't  Mig,  if  I 
never  do  anything.  I'm  come  here  this  morning  to  darn 
stockings."  And  she  pulled  out  of  her  big  waterproof 
pocket  a  bundle  of  stockings  and  a  great  white  ball  of 
darning  cotton  and  a  wooden  egg. 

.  "  There  is  always  one  thing  that  is  real,"  said  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley,  gently,  "  and  that  shows  the  way  surely  to 
all  the  rest." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Desire,  "  of  course ; 
but  they've  mixed  that  all  up  too,  like  everything  else,  so 
that  you  don't  know  where  it  is.  Glossy  Megilp  has  a 
velvet  prayer-book,  and  she  blacks  her  eyelashes  and  goes 
to  church.  We've  all  been  baptized,  and  we've  learned 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  we're  all  Christians.  What  is 
there  more  about  it  ?  I  wish,  sometimes,  they  had  let  it 
all  alone.  I  think  they  vaccinated  us  with  religion,  Aunt 
Frank,  for  fear  we  should  take  it  the  natural  way." 

"  Thee  is  restless,"  said  Rachel  Froke,  tying  on  her 
gray  cloak.  "  And  to  make  us  so  is  oftentimes  the  first 
thing  the  Lord  does  for  us.  It  was  the  first  thing  He  did 
for  the  world.  Then  He  said,  '  Let  there  be  light ! '  In 
the  meantime,  thee  is  right ;  just  darn  thy  stockings." 
And  Rachel  went. 

They  had  a  nice  morning,  after  that,  "  leaving  frets 
alone,"  as  Diana  said.  Diana  Ripwinkley  was  happy  in 
things  just  as  they  were.  If  the  sun  shone,  she  rejoiced 
in  the  glory ;  if  the  rain  fell,  it  shut  her  in  sweetly  to  the 
heart  of  home,  and  the  outside  world  grew  fragrant  for 
her  breathing.  There  was  never  anything  in  her  day  that 
she  could  spare  out  of  it,  and  there  were  no  holes  in  the 


EAVESDROPPING   IN    ASPEN   STREET.  91 

hours  either.  "  Whether  she  was  most  bird  or  bee,  it  was 
hard  to  tell,"  her  mother  said  of  her ;  from  the  time  she 
used  to  sweep  and  dust  her  garret  baby-house  along  the 
big  beams  in  the  old  house  at  Homesworth,  and  make  little 
cheeses,  and  set  them  to  press  in  wooden  pill-boxes  from 
which  she  had  punched  the  bottoms  out,  till  now,  that  she 
began  to  take  upon  herself  the  daily  freshening  of  the  new 
parlors  in  Aspen  Street,  and  had  long  lessons  of  geometry 
to  learn,  whose  dry  demonstrations  she  set  to  odd  little 
improvised  recitatives  of  music,  and  chanted  over  while 
she  ran  up  and  down  putting  away  clean  linen  for  her 
mother,  that  Luclarion  brought  up  from  the  wash. 

As  for  Hazel,  she  was  only  another  variation  upon  the 
same  sweet  nature.  There  was  more  of  outgo  and  enter- 
prise with  her.  Diana  made  the  thing  or  the  place 
pleasant  that  she  was  in  or  doing.  Hazel  sought  out  new 
and  blessed  inventions.  "  There  was  always  something 
coming  to  the  child  that  wouldn't  ever  have  come  to  no 
one  else,"  Luclarion  said.  "  And  besides  that,  she  was  a 
real  '  Witch  Hazel ;  '  she  could  tell  where  the  springs 
were,  and  what's  more,  where  they  warn't." 

Luclarion  Grapp  would  never  have  pleaded  guilty  to 
"dropping  into  poetry"  in  any  light  whatsoever;  but 
what  she  meant  by  this  was  not  exactly  according  to  the 
letter,  as  one  may  easily  see. 


92  REAL   FOLKS. 

IX. 

HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION. 

WHAT  was  the  use  of  "  looking,"  unless  things  were 
looked  at?  Mrs.  Ledwith  found  at  the  end  of  the 
winter  that  she  ought  to  give  a  party.  Not  a  general 
one  ;  Mrs.  Ledwith  always  said  "  not  a  general  one,"  as 
if  it  were  an  exception,  whereas  she  knew  better  than 
ever  to  undertake  a  general  party ;  her  list  would  be  too 
general,  and  heterogeneous.  It  would  simply  be  a  phys- 
ical, as  well  as  a  social,  impossibility.  She  knew  quan- 
tities of  people  separately  and  veiy  cordially,  in  her  easy 
have-a-good-time-when-you-can  style,  that  she  could  by 
no  means  mix,  or  even  gather  together.  She  picked  up 
acquaintances  on  summer  journeys,  she  accepted  civilities 
wherever  she  might  be,  she  asked  everybody  to  her  house 
who  took  a  fancy  to  her,  or  would  admire  her  establish- 
ment, and  if  she  had  had  a  spring  cleaning  or  a  new  car- 
peting, or  a  furbishing  up  in  any  way,  the  next  thing  was 
always  to  light  up  and  play  it  off,  —  to  try  it  on  to  some- 
body. What  were  houses  for  ?  And  there  was  always 
somebody  who  ought  to  be  paid  attention  to ;  somebody 
staying  with  a  friend,  or  a  couple  just  engaged,  or  if  noth- 
ing else,  it  was  her  turn  to  have  the  sewing-society ;  and 
so  her  rooms  got  aired.  Of  course  she  had  to  air  them 
now !  The  drawing-room,  with  its  apricot  and  coffee- 
brown  furnishings,  was  lovely  in  the  evening,  and  the 
crimson  and  garnet  in  the  dining-room  was  rich  and  cozy, 
and  set  off  brilliantly  her  show  of  silver  and  cut-glass ; 
and  then,  there  was  the  new,  real,  sea-green  China. 


HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION.  93 

So  the  party  was  had.  There  were  some  people  in  town 
from  New  York  ;  she  invited  them  and  about  a  hundred 
more.  The  house  lit  up  beautifully ;  the  only  pity  was 
that  Mrs.  Led  with  could  not  wear  her  favorite  and  most 
becoming  colors,  buff  and  chestnut,  because  she  had  taken 
that  family  of  tints  for  her  furniture  ;  but  she  found  a 
lovely  shade  of  violet  that  would  hold  by  gas-light,  and  she 
wore  black  Fayal  lace  with  it,  and  white  roses  upon  her 
hair.  Mrs.  Treweek  was  enchanted  with  the  brown  and 
apricot  drawing-room,  and  wondered  where  on  earth  they 
had  got  that  particular  shade,  for  "  my  dear !  she  had  ran- 
sacked Paris  for  hangings  in  just  that  perfect,  soft,  ripe 
color  that  she  had  in  her  mind  and  never  could  hit  upon.'' 
Mrs.  MacMichael  had  pushed  the  grapes  back  upon  her 
plate  to  examine  the  pattern  of  the  bit  of  china,  and  had 
said  how  lovely  the  coloring  was,  with  the  purple  and  pale 
green  of  the  fruit.  And  these  things,  and  a  few  more 
like  them,  were  the  residuum  of  the  whole,  and  Laura 
Ledwith  was  satisfied. 

Afterward,  "  while  they  were  in  the  way  of  it,"  Flor- 
ence had  a  little  musicale  ;  and  the  first  season  in  Shubar- 
ton  Place  was  over. 

It  turned  out,  however,  as  it  did  in  the  old  rhyme,  — 
they  shod  the  horse,  and  shod  the  mare,  and  let  the  little 
colt  go  bare.  Helena  was  disgusted  because  she  could 
not  have  a  "  German." 

"  We  shall  have  to  be  careful,  now  that  we  have  fairly 
settled  down,"  said  Laura  to  her  sister ;  "  for  every  bit  of 
Grant's  salary  will  have  been  taken  up  with  this  winter's 
expenses.  But  one  wants  to  begin  right,  and  after  that 
one  can  go  on  moderately.  I'm  good  at  contriving, 
Frank  ;  only  give  me  something  to  contrive  with !  " 

"  Isn't  it  a  responsibility,"  Frank  ventured,  "  to  think 
what  we  shall  contrive  for  ?  " 


94  REAL   FOLKS. 

"  Of  course,'.'  returned  Mrs.  Ledwith,  glibly.  "  And 
my  first  duty  is  to  my  children.  I  don't  mean  to  encour- 
age them  to  reckless  extravagance  ;  as  Mrs.  Megilp  says, 
there's  always  a  limit ;  but  it's  one's  duty  to  make  life 
beautiful,  and  one  can't  do  too  much  for  home.  I  want 
my  children  to  be  satisfied  with  theirs,  and  I  want  to  cul- 
tivate their  tastes  and  accustom  them  to  society.  I  can't 
do  everything  for  them  ;  they  will  dress  on  three  hundred 
a  year  apiece,  Agatha  and  Florence  ;  and  I  can  assure 
you  it  needs  management  to  accomplish  that,  in  these 
days  !  " 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  laughed,  gently. 

"  It  would  require  management  with  us  to  get  rid  of 
that,  upon  ourselves." 

"  O,  my  dear,  don't  I  tell  you  continually,  you  haven't 
waked  up  yet  ?  Just  rub  your  eyes  a  while  longer,  — 
or  let  the  girls  do  it  for  you,  —  and  you'll  see  !  Why,  I 
know  of  girls,  —  girls  whose  mothers  have  limited  incomes, 
too,  —  who  have  been  kept  plain,  actually  plain,  all  their 
school  days,  but  who  must  have  now  six  and  eight  hundred 
a  year  to  go  into  society  with.  And  really  I  wouldn't 
undertake  it  for  less,  myself,  if  I  expected  to  keep  up 
with  everything.  But  I  must  treat  mine  all  alike,  and 
we  must  be  contented  with  what  we  have.  There's 
Helena,  now,  crazy  for  a  young  party ;  but  I  couldn't 
think  of  it.  Young  parties  are  ten  times  worse  than  old 
ones  ;  there's  really  no  end  to  the  expense,  with  the  Ger- 
man, and  everything.  Helena  will  have  to  wait ;  and  yet, 
— of  course,  if  I  could,  it  is  desirable,  almost  necessary; 
acquaintances  begin  in  the  school-room,  —  society,  indeed ; 
and  a  great  deal  would  depend  upon  it.  The  truth  is, 
you're  no  sooner  born,  now-a-days,  than  you  have  to  begin 
to  keep  up  ;  or  else  — you're  dropped  out." 


HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION.  95 

"  O,  Laura  !  do  you  remember  the  dear  little  parties 
our  mother  used  to  make  for  us  ?  From  four  till  half-past 
eight,  with  games,  and  tea  at  six,  and  the  fathers  looking 
in?" 

"  And  cockles,  and  mottoes,  and  printed  cambric  dresses, 
and  milk  and  water  !  Where  are  the  children,  do  you 
suppose,  you  dear  old  Frau  Van  Winkle,  that  would  come 
to  such  a  party  now  ?  " 

"  Children  must  be  born  simple,  as  they  were  then. 
There's  nothing  my  girls  would  like  better,  even  at  their 
age,  than  to  help  at  just  such  a  party.  It  is  a  dream  of 
theirs.  Why  shouldn't  somebody  do  it,  just  to  show  how 
good  it  is?  " 

"  You  can  lead  a  horse  to  water,  you  know,  Frank,  but 
you  can't  make  him  drink.  And  the  colts  are  forty  times 
worse.  I  believe  you  might  get  some  of  the  mothers 
together  for  an  ancient  tea-drink,  just  in  the  name  of  old 
association  ;  but  the  babies  would  all  turn  up  their  new- 
fashioned  little  noses." 

"  O,  dear  !  "  sighed  Frau  Van  Winkle.  "  I  wish  I  knew 
people  !  " 

"  By  the  time  you  do,  you'll  know  the  reason  why,  and 
be  like  all  the  rest." 

Hazel  Ripwinkley  went  to  Mrs.  Hilman's  school,  with  her 
cousin  Helena.  That  was  because  the  school  was  a  tho- 
roughly good  one  ;  the  best  her  mother  could  learn  of;  not 
because  it  was  kept  in  parlors  in  Dorset  Street,  and  there 
were  girls  there  who  came  from  palaces  west  of  the  Com- 
mon, in  the  grand  avenues  and  the  ABC  streets  ;  nor 
did  Hazel  wear  her  best  gray  and  black  velvet  suit  for 
every  day,  though  the  rich  colored  poplins  with  their  over- 
skirts  and  sashes,  and  the  gay  ribbons  for  hair  and  neck 
made  the  long  green  baize  covered  tables  look  like  garden- 


96  REAL   FOLKS. 

plots  with  beds  of  bloom,  and  quite  extinguished  with  their 
brilliancy  the  quiet,  one  skirted  brown  merino  that  she 
brushed  and  folded  every  night,  and  put  on  with  fresh 
linen  cuffs  and  collar  every  morning. 
>  "  It  is  an  idiosyncrasy  of  Aunt  Frances,"  Helena  ex- 
plained, with  the  grandest  phrase  she  could  pick  out  of  her 
"  Synonymes,"  to  cow  down  those  who  "  wondered." 

Privately,  Helena  held  long  lamentations  with  Hazel, 
going  to  and  fro,  about  the  party  that  she  could  not  have. 

"  I'm  actually  ashamed  to  go  to  school.  There  isn't  a 
girl  there,  who  can  pretend  to  have  anything,  that  hasn't 
had  some  kind  of  a  company  this  winter.  I've  been  to 
them  all,  and  I  feel  real  mean,  —  sneaky.  What's  '  next 
year  ?  '  Mamma  puts  me  off  with  that.  Poll  ?  Next 
year  they'll  all  begin  again.  You  can't  skip  birthdays." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what !  "  said  Hazel,  suddenly,  inspired  by 
much  the  same  idea  that  had  occurred  to  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  ; 
*'  I  mean  to  ask  my  mother  to  let  me  have  a  party  !  " 

"  You  !  Down  in  Aspen  Street !  Don't,  for  pity's  sake, 
Hazel!" 

"  I  don't  believe  but  what  it  could  be  done  over  again  !  " 
said  Hazel,  irrelevantly,  intent  upon  her  own  thought. 

"  It  couldn't  be  done  once  !  For  gracious  grandmoth- 
er's sake,  don't  think  of  it !  "  cried  the  little  world-woman 
of  thirteen. 

"  It's  gracious  grandmother's  sake  that  made  me  think 
of  it,"  said  Hazel,  laughing.  "  The  way  she  used  to 
do." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  them  to  help  you  hunt  up  old 
Noah,  and  all  get  back  into  the  ark,  pigeons  and  all?  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  they  had  pretty  nice  times  there,  any 
how  ;  and  if  another  big  rain  comes,  perhaps  they'll  have 
to  I" 


HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION.  97 

Hazel  did  not  intend  her  full  meaning ;  but  there  is 
many  a  faint,  small  prophecy  hid  under  a  clover-leaf. 

Hazel  did  not  let  go  things  :  her  little  witch-wand,  once 
pointed,  held  its  divining  angle  with  the  might  of  magic 
until  somebody  broke  ground. 

"  It's  awful !  "  Helena  declared  to  her  mother  and  sis- 
ters, with  tears  of  consternation.  "  And  she  wants  me  to 
go  round  with  her  and  carry  '  compliments  ! '  It'll  never 
be  got  over,  —  never  !  I  wish  I  could  go  away  to  board- 
ing-school ! " 

For  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  had  made  up  her  unsophisticated 
mind  to  try  this  thing ;  to  put  this  grain  of  a  pure,  potent 
salt,  right  into  the  seethe  and  glitter  of  little  Boston,  and 
find  out  what  it  would  decompose  or  precipitate.  For  was 
not  she  a  mother,  testing  the  world's  chalice  for  her  chil- 
dren ?  What  did  she  care  for  the  hiss  and  the  bubble,  if 
they  came  ? 

She  was  wider  awake  than  Mrs.  Ledwith  knew;  per- 
haps they  who  come  down  from  the  mountain  heights  of 
long  seclusion  can  measure  the  world's  paces  and  changes 
better  than  they  who  have  been  hurried  in  the  midst  of 
them,  on  and  on,  or  round  and  round. 

Worst  of  all,  old  Uncle  Titus  took  it  up. 

It  was  funny,  —  or  it  would  have  been  funny,  reader, 
if  anybody  but  you  and  I  and  Rachel  Froke  knew  ex- 
actly how,  —  to  watch  Uncle  Titus  as  he  kept  his  quiet  eye 
on  all  these  things,  —  the  things  that  he  had  set  going, — 
and  read  their  revelations  ;  sheltered,  disguised,  under  a 
character  that  the  world  had  chosen  to  put  upon  him,  like 
Haroun  Alraschid  in  the  merchant's  cloak. 

They  took  their  tea  with  him,  —  the  two  families,  — 
every  Sunday  night.  Agatha  Ledwith  "  filled  him  in  "  a 
pair  of  slippers  that  very  first  Christmas  ;  he  sat  there  in 

7 


98  REAL    FOLKS. 

the  corner  with  his  old  leather  ones  on,  when  they  came, 
and  left  them,  for  the  most  part,  to  their  own  mutual  en- 
tertainment, until  the  tea  was  ready.  It  was  a  sort  of 
family  exchange ;  all  the  plans  and  topics  came  up,  par- 
ticularly on  the  Ledwith  side,  for  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  a 
good  listener,  and  Laura  a  good  talker ;  and  the  fun,  — 
that  you  and  I  and  Rachel  Froke  could  guess,  —  yes,  and 
a  good  deal  of  unsuspected  earnest,  also,  —  was  all  there 
behind  the  old  gentleman's  "  Christian  Age,"  as  over  brief 
mentions  of  sermons,  or  words  about  books,  or  little  brevi- 
ties of  family  inquiries  and  household  news,  broke  small 
floods  of  excitement  like  water  over  pebbles,  as  Laura  and 
her  daughters  discussed  and  argued  volubly  the  matching 
and  the  flouncing  of  a  silk,  or  the  new  flowering  and 
higher  pitching  of  a  bonnet, —  since  "they  are  wearing 
everything  all  on  the  top,  you  know,  and  mine  looks  ter- 
ribly meek  ; "  or  else  descanted  diffusely  on  the  unaccount- 
bleness  of  the  somebodies  not  having  called,  or  the  bother 
and  forwardness  of  the  some-other-bodies  who  had,  and  the 
eighty-three  visits  that  were  left  on  the  list  to  be  paid,  and 
"  never  being  able  to  take  a  day  to  sit  down  for  anything." 

"  What  is  it  all  for  ?  "  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  would  ask,  over 
again,  the  same  old  burden  of  the  world's  weariness  falling 
upon  her  from  her  sister's  life,  and  making  her  feel  as  if  it 
were  her  business  to  clear  it  away  somehow. 

"  Why,  to  live  !  "  Mrs.  Ledwith  would  reply.  "  You've 
got  it  all  to  do,  you  see." 

"  But  I  don't  really  see,  Laura,  where  the  living  comes 
in." 

Laura  opens  her  eyes. 

"  Slang  ? "  says  she.  "  Where  did  you  get  hold  of 
that  ?  " 

"  Is  it  slang  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.     I  mean  it." 


HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION.  99 

"  Well,  you  are  the  funniest !  You  don't  catch  any- 
thing. Even  a  by-word  must  come  first-hand  from  you, 
and  mean  something  !  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  such  a  hard-working,  getting-ready-to- 
be,  and  then  not  being.  There's  no  place  left  for  it, — 
because  it's  all  place." 

"  Gracious  me,  Frank  !  If  you  are  going  to  sift  every- 
thing so,  and  get  back  of  everything  !  I  can't  live  in 
metaphysics  :  I  have  to  live  in  the  things  themselves, 
amongst  other  people." 

"  But  isn't  it  scene  and  costume,  a  good  deal  of  it,  with- 
out the  play  ?  It  may  be  that  I  don't  understand,  be- 
cause I  have  not  got  into  the  heart  of  your  city  life  ;  but 
what  comes  of  the  parties,  for  instance  ?  The  grand 
question,  beforehand,  is  about  wearing,  and  then  there's 
a  retrospection  of  what  was  worn,  and  how  people  looked. 
It  seems  to  be  all  surface.  I  should  think  they  might 
almost  send  in  their  best  gowns,  or  perhaps  a  photograph, 
—  if  photographs  ever  were  becoming,  —  as  they  do  visit- 
ing cards." 

"  Aunt  Frank,"  said  Desire,  "  I  don't  believe  the  '  heart 
of  city  life '  is  in  the  parties,  or  the  parlors.  I  believe 
there's  a  great  lot  of  us  knocking  round  amongst  the  dry 
goods  and  the  furniture  that  never  get  any  further.  People 
must  be  living,  somewhere,  behind  the  fixings.  But  there 
are  so  many  people,  nowadays,  that  have  never  quite  got 
fixed  !  " 

"  You  might  live  all  your  days  here,"  said  Mrs.  Led- 
with  to  her  sister,  passing  over  Desire,  "  and  never  get 
into  the  heart  of  it,  for  that  matter,  unless  you  were  born 
into  it.  I  don't  care  so  much,  for  my  part.  I  know 
plenty  of  nice  people,  and  I  like  to  have  things  nice  about 
me,  and  to  have  a  pleasant  time,  and  to  let  my  children 


100  REAL    FOLKS. 

enjoy  themselves.  The  *  heart,'  if  the  truth  was  known, 
is  a  dreadful  still  place.  I'm  satisfied." 

Uncle  Titus's  paper  was  folded  across  the  middle ;  just 
then  he  reversed  the  lower  half;  that  brought  the  printing 
upside  down  ;  but  he  went  on  reading  all  the  same. 

"  /'in  going  to  have  a  real  party,"  said  Hazel,  "  a  real, 
gracious-grandmother  party  ;  just  such  as  you  and  mother 
had,  Aunt  Laura,  when  you  were  little." 

Her  Aunt  Laura  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  I  guess  you'll  have  to  go  round  and  knock  up  the 
grandmothers  to  come  to  it,  then,"  said  she.  "  You'd  bet- 
ter make  it  a  fancy  dress  affair  at  once,  and  then  it  will  be 
accounted  for." 

"  No  ;  I'm  going  round  to  invite  ;  and  they  are  to  come 
at  four,  and  take  tea  at  six ;  and  they're  just  to  wear  their 
afternoon  dresses ;  and  Miss  Craydocke  is  coming  at  any 
rate  ;  and  she  knows  all  the  old  plays,  and  lots  of  new 
ones  ;  and  she  is  going  to  show  how." 

"  I'm  coming,  too,"  said  Uncle  Titus,  over  his  news- 
paper, with  his  eyes  over  his  glasses. 

"  That's  good,"  said  Hazel,  simply,  least  surprised  of 
any  of  the  conclave. 

"  And  you'll  have  to  play  the  muffin  man.  '  O,  don't 
you  know,'  "  —  she  began  to  sing,  and  danced  two  little 
steps  toward  Mr.  Oldways.  "  O,  I  forgot  it  was  Sunday  !  " 
she  said,  suddenly  stopping. 

"  Not  much  wonder,"  said  Uncle  Titus.  "  And  not 
much  matter.  Your  Sunday's  good  enough." 

And  then  he  turned  his  paper  right  side  up  ;  but,  before 
he  began  really  to  read  again,  he  swung  half  round  to- 
ward them  in  his  swivel-chair,  and  said, — 

"  Leave  the  sugar-plums  to  me,  Hazel ;  I'll  come  early 
and  bring  'em  in  my  pocket." 


HAZEL'S  INSPIRATION.  101 

"  It's  the  first  thing  he's  taken  the  slightest  notice  of, 
or  interest  in,  that  any  one  of  us  has  been  doing,"  said 
Agatha  Ledwith,  with  a  spice  of  momentary  indignation, 
as  they  walked  along  Bridgeley  Street  to  take  the  car. 

For  Uncle  Titus  had  not  come  to  the  Ledwith  party. 
"  He  never  went  visiting,  and  he  hadn't  any  best  coat," 
he  told  Laura,  in  verbal  reply  to  the  invitation  that  had 
come  written  on  a  square  satin  sheet,  once  folded,  in  an 
envelope  with  a  big  monogram. 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith,  "  any  way. 
Only  a  child's  play." 

"  But  it  will  be,  mother  ;  you  don't  know,"  said  Helena. 
"  She  's  going  right  in  everywhere,  with  that  ridiculous 
little  invitation ;  to  the  Ashburnes  and  the  Geoffreys,  and 
all !  She  hasn't  the  least  idea  of  any  difference  ;  and  just 
think  what  the  girls  will  say,  and  how  they  will  stare,  and 
laugh  !  I  wish  she  wasn't  my  cousin  !  " 

"  Helena ! " 

Mrs.  Ledwith  spoke  with  real  displeasure ;  for  she  was 
good-natured  and  affectionate  in  her  way  ;  and  her  worldly 
ambitions  were  rather  wide  than  high,  as  we  have  seen. 

O       7 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it ;  you  don't  know,  mother," 
Helena  repeated.  "  It's  horrid  to  go  to  school  with  all 
those  stiffies,  that  don't  care  a  snap  for  you,  and  only 
laugh." 

"  Laughing  is  vulgar,"  said  Agatha.  If  any  indirect 
question  were  ever  thrown  upon  the  family  position,  Aga- 
tha immediately  began  expounding  the  ethics  of  high 
breeding,  as  one  who  had  attained. 

"  It  is  only  half-way  people  who  laugh,"  she  said.  "  Ada 
Geoffrey  and  Lilian  Ashburne  never  laugh  —  at  anybody 
—  I  am  sure." 

"  No,  they  don't ;  not  right  out.     They're  awfully  po- 


102  REAL    POLKS. 

lite.  But  you  can  feel  it,  underneath.  They  have  a  way 
of  keeping  so  still,  when  you  know  they  would  laugh  if 
they  did  anything." 

"Well,  they'll  neither  laugh  nor  keep  still,  about  this. 
You  need  not  be  concerned.  They'll  just  not  go,  and 
that  will  be  the  end  of  it." 

Agatha  Ledwith  was  mistaken.  She  had  been  mistaken 
about  two  things  to-night.  The  other  was  when  she  had 
said  that  this  was  the  first  time  Uncle  Oldways  had  noticed 
or  been  interested  in  anything  they  did. 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  103 

X. 

COCKLES    AND    CRAMBO. 

HAZEL  RIPWINKLEY  put  on  her  nankeen  sack  and 
skirt,  and  her  little  round,  brown  straw  hat.  For 
May  had  come,  and  almost  gone,  and  it  was  a  day  of  early 
summer  warmth. 

Hazel's  dress  was  not  a  "  suit ;  "  it  had  been  made  and 
worn  two  summers  before  suits  were  thought  of;  yet  it 
suited  very  well,  as  people's  things  are  apt  to  do,  after  all, 
who  do  not  trouble  themselves  about  minutiae  of  fashion, 
and  so  get  no  particular  antediluvian  marks  upon  them 
that  show  when  the  flood  subsides. 

Her  mother  knew  some  things  that  Hazel  did  not.  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley,  if  she  had  been  asleep  for  five  and  twenty 
years,  had  lost  none  of  her  perceptive  faculties  in  the 
trance.  But  she  did  not  hamper  her  child  with  any 
doubts  ;  she  let  her  go  on  her  simple  way,  under  the  shield 
of  her  simplicity,  to  test  this  world  that  she  had  come 
into,  for  herself. 

Hazel  had  written  down  her  little  list  of  the  girls'  names 
that  she  would  like  to  ask  ;  and  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  looked  at 
it  with  a  smile.  There  was  Ada  Geoffrey,  the  banker's 
daughter,  and  Lilian  Ashburne,  the  professor's,  —  heiresses 
each,  of  double  lines  of  birth  and  wealth.  She  could  re- 
member how,  in  her  childhood,  the  old  names  sounded, 
with  the  respect  that  was  in  men's  tones  when  they  were 
spoken  ;  and  underneath  were  Lois  James  and  Katie  Kil- 
burnie,  children  of  a  printer  and  a  hatter.  They  had  all 
been  chosen  for  their  purely  personal  qualities.  A  child, 
let  alone,  chooses  as  an  angel  chooses. 


104  REAL    FOLKS. 

It  remained  to  be  seen  how  they  would  come  together. 

At  the  very  head,  in  large,  fair  letters,  was,  — 
"MISS  CKAYDOCKE." 

Down  at  the  bottom,  she  had  just  added, — 
"ME.  K1NCAID  AN7D  DORRIS." 

"  For,  if  I  have  some  grown  folks,  mother,  perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  other  grown  folks,  —  '  to  keep  the  balance 
true.'  Besides,  Mr.  Kincaid  and  D orris  always  like  the 
little  nice  times." 

From  the  day  when  Dorris  Kincaid  had  come  over  with 
the  gray  glass  vase  and  her  repeated  thanks,  when  the 
flowers  had  done  their  ministry  and  faded,  there  had  been 
little  simple  courtesies,  each  way,  between  the  opposite 
houses  ;  and  once  Kenneth  and  his  sister  had  taken  tea 
with  the  Ripwinkleys,  and  they  had  played  "  crambo " 
and  "  consequences  "  in  the  evening.  The  real  little  game 
of  "  consequences,"  of  which  this  present  friendliness  was 
a  link,  was  going  on  all  the  time,  though  they  did  not  stop 
to  read  the  lines  as  they  folded  them  down,  and  "  what  the 
world  said  "  was  not  one  of  the  items  in  their  scheme  of  it 
at  all. 

It  would  have  been  something  worth  while  to  have  fol- 
lowed Hazel  as  she  went  her  rounds,  asking  quietly  at 
each  house  to  see  Mrs.  This  or  That,  "  as  she  had  a  mes- 
sage ;  "  and  being  shown,  like  a  little  representative  of  an 
almost  extinct  period,  up  into  the  parlor,  or  the  dressing- 
room  of  each  lady,  and  giving  her  quaint  errand. 

"  I  am  Hazel  Ripwinkley,"  she  would  say,  "  and  my 
mother  sends  her  compliments,  and  would  like  to  have 
Lilian," — or  whoever  else,  —  "  come  at  four  o'clock  to-day, 
and  spend  the  afternoon  and  take  tea.  I'm  to  have  a  little 
party  such  as  she  used  to  have,  and  nobody  is  to  be  much 
dressed  up,  and  we  are  only  to  play  games." 


"I  AM   HAZEL   RIPWINKIiBif."     See   p.   105. 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  105 

«*  Why,  that  is  charming  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ashburne  ;  for 

the  feeling  of  her  own  sweet  early  days,  and  the  old  B 

Square  house,  came  over  her  as  she  heard  the  words.  "  It 
is  Lilian's  music  afternoon ;  but  never  mind  ;  give  my 
kind  compliments  to  your  mother,  and  she  will  be  very 
happy  to  come." 

And  Mrs.  Ashburne  stooped  down  and  kissed  Hazel, 
when  she  went  away. 

She  stood  in  the  deep  carved  stone  entrance-way  to 
Mrs.  Geoffrey's  house,  in  the  same  fearless,  Red  Riding 
Hood  fashion,  just  as  she  would  have  waited  in  any  little 
country  porch  up  in  Homesworth,  where  she  had  need 
indeed  to  knock. 

Not  a  whit  dismayed  was  she  either,  when  the  tall  man- 
servant opened  to  her,  and  admitted  her  into  the  square, 
high,  marble-paved  hall,  out  of  which  great  doors  were 
set  wide  into  rooms  rich  and  quiet  with  noble  adorning 
and  soft  shading,  —  where  pictures  made  such  a  magic 
upon  the  walls,  and  books  were  piled  from  floor  to  ceiling ; 
and  where  her  little  figure  was  lost  as  she  went  in,  and  she 
hesitated  to  take  a  seat  anywhere,  lest  she  should  be  quite 
hidden  in  some  great  arm-chair  or  sofa  corner,  and  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  should  not  see  her  when  she  came  down. 

So,  as  the  lady  entered,  there  she  was,  upright  and  wait- 
ing, on  her  two  feet,  in  her  nankeen  dress,  just  within  the 
library  doors,  with  her  face  turned  toward  the  staircase. 

"  I  am  Hazel  Ripwinkley,"  she  began ;  as  if  she  had 
said,  I  am  Pease-blossom  or  Mustard-seed ;  "  I  go  to  school 
with  Ada."  And  went  on,  then,  with  her  compliments 
and  her  party.  And  at  the  end  she  said,  very  simply,  — 

"  Miss  Craydocke  is  coming,  and  she  knows  the 
games." 

"  Miss  Craydocke,  of  Orchard  Street  ?  And  where  do 
you  live  ?  " 


106  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  In  Aspen  Street,  close  by,  in  Uncle  Oldways'  house. 
We  haven't  lived  there  very  long,  —  only  this  winter ;  be- 
fore that  we  always  lived  in  Homesworth." 

"  And  Homesworth  is  in  the  country  ?  Don't  you  miss 
that  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  Aspen  Street  isn't  very  bad  ;  we've  got  a 
garden.  Besides,  we  like  streets  and  neighbors." 

Then  she  added, — for  her  little  witch-stick  felt  spirit- 
ually the  quality  of  what  she  spoke  to,  —  "  Wouldn't  Mr. 
Geoffrey  come  for  Ada  in  the  evening  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  he  would  !  "  said  Mrs.  Geof- 
frey, her  face  all  alive  with  exquisite  and  kindly  amuse- 
ment, and  catching  the  spirit  of  the  thing  from  the  inimi- 
table simplicity  before  her,  such  as  never,  she  did  believe, 
had  walked  into  anybody's  house  before,  in  this  place  and 
generation,  and  was  no  more  to  be  snubbed  than  a  flower 
or  a  breeze  or  an  angel. 

It-  was  a  piece  of  Witch  Hazel's  witchery,  or  inspiration, 
that  she  named  Miss  Craydocke  ;  for  Miss  Craydocke  was 
an  old,  dear  friend  of  Mrs.  Geoffrey's,  in  that  "  heart  of 
things  "  behind  the  fashions,  where  the  kingdom  is  grow- 
ing up.  But  of  course  Hazel  could  not  have  known  that ; 
something  in  the  lady's  face  just  made  her  think  of  the 
same  thing  in  Miss  Craydocke's,  and  so  she  spoke,  forget- 
ting to  explain,  nor  wondering  in  the  very  least,  when  she 
was  met  with  knowledge. 

It  was  all  divining,  though,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end.  That  was  what  took  her  into  these  homes,  rather 
than  to  a  score  of  other  places  up  and  down  the  self-same 
streets,  where,  if  she  had  got  in  at  all,  she  would  have  met 
strange,  lofty  stares,  and  freezing  "  thank  you's,"  and  "  en- 
gagements." 

"  I've  found  the  real  folks,  mother,  and  they're  all  com- 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  107 

ing  !  "  she  cried,  joyfully,  running  in  where  Mrs.  Ripwink- 
ley  was  setting  little  vases  and  baskets  about  on  shelf  and 
table,  between  the  white,  plain,  muslin  draperies  of  the 
long  parlor  windows.  In  vases  and  baskets  were  sweet 
May  flowers  ;  bunches  of  deep-hued,  rich-scented  violets, 
stars  of  blue  and  white  periwinkle,  and  Miss  Craydocku's 
lilies  of  the  valley  in  their  tall,  cool  leaves  ;  each  kind 
gathered  by  itself  in  clusters  and  handfuls.  Inside  the 
wide,  open  fireplace,  behind  the  high  brass  fender  and  the 
shining  andirons,  was  a  "  chimney  flower  pot,"  country 
fashion,  of  green  lilac  boughs,  —  not  blossoms,  —  and 
woodbine  sprays,  and  crimson  and  white  tulips.  The 
room  was  fair  and  fragrant,  and  the  windows  were  wide 
open  upon  vines  and  grass. 

"  It  looks  like  you,  mother,  just  as  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  house 
looks  like  her.  Houses  ought  to  look  like  people,  I  think." 

"  There's  your  surprise,  children.  We  shouldn't  be 
doing  it  right  without  a  surprise,  you  know." 

And  the  surprise  was  not  dolls'  pelerines,  but  books. 
';  Little  Women  "  was  one,  which  sent  Diana  and  Hazel 
off  for  a  delicious  two  hours'  read  up  in  their  own  room 
until  dinner. 

After  dinner,  Miss  Craydocke  came,  in  her  purple  and 
white  striped  mohair  and  her  white  lace  neckerchief ;  and 
at  three  o'clock  Uncle  Titus  walked  in,  with  his  coat 
pockets  so  bulgy  and  rustling  and  odorous  of  peppermint 
and  sassafras,  that  it  was  no  use  to  pretend  to  wait  and  be 
unconscious,  but  a  pure  mercy  to  unload  him  so  that  he 
might  be  able  to  sit  down. 

Nobody  knows  to  this  day  where  he  got  them  ;  he  must 
have  ordered  them  somewhere,  one  would  think,  long 
enough  before  to  have  special  moulds  and  implements 
made ;  but  there  were  large,  beautiful  cockles,  —  not  of 


108  REAL    FOLKS. 

the  old  flour-paste  sort,  but  of  clear,  sparkling  sugar,  rose- 
color,  and  amber,  and  white,  with  little  slips  of  tinted 
paper  tucked  within,  and  these  printed  delicately  with 
pretty  rhymes  and  couplets,  from  real  poets ;  things  to  be 
truly  treasured,  yet  simple,  for  children's  apprehension, 
and  fancy,  and  fun.  And  there  were  "  Salem  gibraltars," 
such  as  we  only  get  out  of  Essex  County  now  and  then, 
for  a  big  charitable  Fair,  when  Salem  and  everywhere  else 
gets  its  spirit  up  to  send  its  best  and  most  especial ;  and 
there  were  toys  and  devices  in  sugar  —  flowers  and  ani- 
mals, hats,  bonnets,  and  boots,  apples,  and  cucumbers,  — 
such  as  Diana  and  Hazel,  and  even  Desire  and  Helena  had 
never  seen  before. 

"  It  isn't  quite  fair,"  said  good  Miss  Craydocke.  "  We 
were  to  go  back  to  the  old,  simple  fashions  of  things  ;  and 
here  you  are  beginning  over  again  already  with  sumptu- 
ous inventions.  It's  the  very  way  it  came  about  before, 
till  it  was  all  spoilt." 

"  No,"  said  Uncle  Titus,  stoutly.  "  It's  only  '  Old  and 
New,'  — the  very  selfsame  good  old  notions  brought  to  a 
little  modern  perfection.  They're  not  French  flummery, 
either  ;  and  there's  not  a  drop  of  gin,  or  a  flavor  of  prus- 
sic  acid,  or  any  other  abominable  chemical,  in  one  of  those 
contrivances.  They're  as  innocent  as  they  look  ;  good 
honest  mint  and  spice  and  checkerberry  and  lemon  and 
rose.  I  know  the  man  that  made  'em !  " 

Helena  Ledwith  began  to  think  that  the  first  person, 
singular  or  plural,  might  have  a  good  time  ;  but  that  aw- 
ful third  !  Helena's  "  they  "  was  as  potent  and  tremen- 
dous as  her  mother's. 

"  It's  nice,"  she  said  to  Hazel ;  "  but  they  don't  have 
such  things.  I  never  saw  them  at  a  party.  And  they 
don't  play  games  ;  they  always  dance.  And  it's  broad,  hot 
daylight ;  and  —  you  haven't  asked  a  single  boy  !  " 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  109 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  any  !  Only  Jimmy  Scarup ;  and 
I  guess  he'd  rather  play  ball,  and  break  windows !  " 

"  Jimmy  Scarup !  "  And  Helena  turned  away,  hope- 
less of  Hazel's  comprehending. 

But  "  they  "  came  ;  and  "  they  "  turned  right  into 
«  we." 

It  was  not  a  party  ;  it  was  something  altogether  fresh 
and  new ;  the  house  was  a  new,  beautiful  place  ;  it  was- 
like  the  country.  And  Aspen  Street,  when  you  got  down1 
there,  was  so  still  and  shady  and  sweet  smelling  and  pleas- 
ant. They  experienced  the  delight  of  finding  out  some- 
thing. 

Miss  Craydocke  and  Hazel  set  them  at  it,  —  their  good 
time ;  they  had  planned  it  all  out,  and  there  was  no  stiff, 
shy  waiting.  They  began,  right  off,  with  the  "  Muffin 
Man."  Hazel  danced  up  to  Desire  :  — 

"  0,  do  you  know  the  Muffin  Man, 

The  Muffin  Man,  the  Muffin  Man  ? 
O,  do  you  know  the  Muffin  Man 
That  lives  in  Drury  Lane  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  I  know  the  Muffin  Man, 

The  Muffin  Man,  the  Muffin  Man, 
O,  yes,  I  know  the  Muffin  Man 
That  lives  in  Drury  Lane." 

And  so  they  danced  off  together :  — 

"  Two  of  us  know  the  Muffin  Man, 

The  Muffin  Man,  the  Muffin  Man, 
Two  of  us  know  the  Muffin  Man 
That  lives  in  Drury  Lane." 

And  then  they  besieged  Miss  Craydocke ;  and  then  the 
three  met  Ada  Geoffrey,  just  as  she  had  come  in  and 
spoken  to  Diana  and  Mrs.  Ripwinkley ;  and  Ada  had 
caught  the  refrain,  and  responded  instantly  ;  and  four  of 
them  knew  the  Muffin  Man. 


110  REAL   FOLKS. 

"  I  know  they'll  think  it's  common  and  queer,  and 
they'll  laugh  to-morrow,"  whispered  Helena  to  Diana,  as 
Hazel  drew  the  lengthening  string  to  Dorris  Kincaid's 
corner  and  caught  her  up ;  but  the  next  minute  they  were 
around  Helena  in  her  turn,  and  they  were  laughing 
already,  with  pure  glee  ;  and  five  faces  bent  toward  her, 
and  five  voices  sang,  — 

"  0,  don't  you  know  the  Muffin  Man?  " 

And  Helena  had  to  sing  back  that  she  did  ;  and  then 
the  six  made  a  perfect  snarl  around  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  her- 
self, and  drew  her  in  ;  and  then  they  all  swept  off  and  came 
down  across  the  room  upon  Mr.  Oldways,  who  muttered, 
under  the  singing,  "  seven  women  !  Well,  the  Bible  says 
so,  and  I  suppose  it's  come ! "  and  then  he  held  out  both 
hands,  while  his  hard  face  unbent  in  every  wrinkle,  with  a 
smile  that  overflowed  through  all  their  furrowed  channels, 
up  to  his  very  eyes  ;  like  some  sparkling  water  that  must 
find  its  level ;  and  there  were  eight  that  knew  the  Muffin 
Man. 

So  nine,  and  ten,  and  up  to  fifteen  ;  and  then,  as  their 
line  broke  away  into  fragments,  still  breathless  with  fun, 
Miss  Craydocke  said,  —  her  eyes  brimming  over  with 
laughing  tears,  that  always  came  when  she  was  gay,  — 

"  There,  now  !  we  all  know  the  '  MufHn  Man  ; '  there- 
fore it  follows,  mathematically,  I  believe,  that  we  must  all 
know  each  other.  I  think  we'll  try* a  sitting-down  game 
next.  I'll  give  you  all  something.  Desire,  you  can  tjll 
them  what  to  do  with  it,  and  Miss  Ashburne  shall  predict 
the  consequences." 

So  they  had  the  u  Presentation  Game  ; "  and  the  gifts, 
and  the  dispositions,  and  the  consequences,  when  the 
whispers  were  over,  and  they  were  all  declared  aloud, 
were  such  hits  and  jumbles  of  sense  and  nonsense  as 
were  almost  too  queer  to  have  been  believed. 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  Ill 

41  Miss  Craydocke  gave  me  a  butter  firkin,"  said  Mrs. 
Rip  wink  ley.  "  I  was  to  put  it  in  the  parlor  and  plant 
vanilla  beans  in  it ;  and  the  consequence  would  be  that 
Birnam  Wood  would  come  to  Dunsinane." 

"  She  gave  me  a  wax  doll,"  said  Helena.  "  I  was  to 
buy  it  a  pair  of  high-heeled  boots  and  a  chignon ;  and  the 
consequence  would  be  that  she  would  have  to  stand  on 
her  head." 

44  She  gave  me,"  said  Mr.  Old  ways,  '4  an  iron  spoon.  I 
was  to  deal  out  sugar-plums  with  it ;  and  the  consequence 
would  be  that  you  would  all  go  home." 

"  She  gave  me,"  said  Lois  James,  '4  Woman's  Rights.  I 
should'nt  know  what  to  do  with  them ;  and  the  consequence 
would  be  a  terrible  mortification  to  all  my  friends." 

44  She  gave  me,"  said  Hazel,  "  a  real  good  time.  I  was 
to  pass  it  round ;  and  the  consequence  would  be  an  earth- 
quake." 

Then  they  had  44  Scandal ; "  a  whisper,  repeated  rap- 
idly fronj  ear  to  ear.  It  began  with,  44  Luclarion  is  in 
the  kitchen  making  tea-biscuits ;  "  and  it  ended  with  the 
horrible  announcement  that  there  were  44  two  hundred 
gallons  of  hot  pitch  ready,  and  that  everybody  was  to  be 
tipped  into  it." 

44  Characters,"  and  44  Twenty  Questions,"  and  44  How, 
When,  and  Where,"  followed  ;  and  then  they  were  ready 
for  a  run  again,  and  they  played  "  Boston,"  in  which  Mr. 
Oldways,  being  4'  Sceattle,"  was  continually  being  left 
out,  whereupon  he  declared  at  last,  that  he  didn't  believe 
there  was  any  place  for  him,  or  even  that  he  was  down 
anywhere  on  the  map,  and  it  wasn't  fair,  and  he  was 
going  to  secede  ;  and  that  broke  up  the  play ;  for  the 
great  fun  of  all  the  games  had  come  to  be  Miss  Craydocke 
and  Uncle  Titus,  as  it  always  is  the  great  fun  to  the 


112  REAL   FOLKS. 

young  ones  when  the  elders  join  in,  —  the  older  and  the 
soberer,  the  better  sport ;  there  is  always  something  in 
the  "  fathers  looking  on  ; "  that  is  the  way  I  think  it  is 
among  them  who  always  do  behold  the  Face  of  the  Father 
in  heaven,  —  smiling  upon  their  smiles,  glowing  upon 
their  gladness. 

In  the  tea-room,  it  was  all  even  more  delightful  yet ;  it 
was  further  out  into  the  garden,  shaded  at  the  back  by 
the  deep  leafiness  of  grape-vines,  and  a  trellis  work  with 
arches  in  it  that  ran  up  at  the  side,  and  would  be  gay  by 
and  by  with  scarlet  runners,  and  morning-glories,  and  nas- 
turtiums, that  were  shooting  up  strong  and  swift  already, 
from  the  neatly  weeded  beds. 

Inside,  was  the  tall  old  semicircular  sideboard,  with 
gingerbread  grooves  carved  all  over  it ;  and  the  real  brass 
"  dogs,"  with  heads  on  their  fore-paws,  were  lying  in  the 
fire-place,  under  the  lilac  boughs  ;  and  the  square,  plain 
table  stood  in  the  midst,  with  its  glossy  white  cloth  that 
touched  the  floor  at  the  corners,  and  on  it  were  the  iden- 
tical pink  mugs,  and  a  tall  glass  pitcher  of  milk,  and  plates 
of  the  thinnest  and  sweetest  bread  and  butter,  and  early 
strawberries  in  a  white  basket  lined  with  leaves,  and  the 
traditional  round  frosted  cakes  upon  a  silver  plate  with  a 
network  rim. 

And  Luclarion  and  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  waited  upon  them 
all,  and  it  was  still  no  party,  to  be  compared  or  thought  of 
with  any  salad  and  ice-pudding  and  Germania-band  affair, 
such  as  they  had  had  all  winter  ;  but  something  utterly 
fresh  and  new  and  by  itself,  —  place,  and  entertainment, 
and  people,  and  all. 

After  tea,  they  went  out  into  the  garden  ;  and  there, 
under  the  shady  horse-chestnuts,  was  a  swing  ;  and  there 
were  balls  with  which  Hazel  showed  them  how  to  play 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  113 

"class;"  tossing  in  turn  against  the  high  brick  wall,  and 
taking  their  places  up  and  down,  according  to  the  number 
of  their  catches.  It  was  only  Miss  Craydocke's  "  Thread 
the  Needle  "  that  got  them  in  again  ;  and  after  that,  she 
showed  them  another  simple  old  dancing  game,  the 
"  Winding  Circle,"  from  which  they  were  all  merrily 
and  mysteriously  untwisting  themselves  with  Miss  Cray- 
docke's bright  little  thin  face  and  her  fluttering  cap  rib- 
bons, and  her  spry  little  trot  leading  them  successfully  off, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  the  grand  Mr.  Geoffrey 
walked  in ;  the  man  who  could  manage  State  Street,  and 
who  had  stood  at  the  right  hand  of  Governor  and  Presi- 
dent, with  his  clear  brain,  and  big  purse,  and  generous 
hand,  through  the  years  of  the  long,  terrible  war ;  the 
man  whom  it  was  something  for  great  people  to  get  to  their 
dinners,  or  to  have  walk  late  into  an  evening  drawing- 
room  and  dignify  an  occasion  for  the  last  half  hour. 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  just  simply  glad  to  see  him ;  so- 
she  was  to  see  Kenneth  Kincaid,  who  came  a  few  minutes- 
after,  just  as  Luclarion  brought  the  tray  of  sweetmeats  in, 
which    Mrs.    Ripwinkley  had  so  far  innovated  upon  the 
gracious-grandmother  plan  as  to  have  after  tea,  instead  of 
before. 

The  beautiful  cockles  and  their  rhymes  got  their  heads 
all  together  around  the  large  table,  for  the  eating  and  the 
reading.  Mr.  Geoffrey  and  Uncle  Titus  sat  talking  Euro- 
pean politics  together,  a  little  aside.  The  sugar-plums 
lasted  a  good  while,  with  the  chatter  over  them  ;  and 
then,  before  they  quite  knew  what  it  was  all  for,  they  had 
got  slips  of  paper  and  lead  pencils  before  them,  and  there 
was  to  be  a  round  of  "  Crambo"  to  wind  up. 

"  O,  I  don't  know  how  !  "  and  "  I  never  can  !  "  were 
the  first  words,  as  they  always  are,  when  it  was  explained. 
8 


114  REAL    FOLKS. 

to  the  uninitiated  ;  but  Miss  Craydocke  assured  them  that 
"  everybody  could ;  "  and  Hazel  said  that  "  nobody  expected 
real  poetry  ;  it  needn't  be  more  than  two  lines,  and  those 
might  be  blank  verse,  if  they  were  very  hard,  but  jingles 
were  better ; "  and  so  the  questions  and  the  words  were 
written  and  folded,  and  the  papers  were  shuffled  and 
opened  amid  outcries  of,  "  O,  this  is  awful !  "  "  What  a 
word  to  get  in !  "  "  Why,  they  haven't  the  least  thing  to 
do  with  each  other  !  " 

"  That's  the  beauty  of  it,"  said  Miss  Craydocke,  unre- 
lentingly ;  "  to  make  them  have  ;  and  it  is  funny  how  much 
things  do  have  to  do  with  each  other  when  they  once  hap- 
pen to  come  across." 

Then  there  were  knit  brows,  and  desperate  scratchings, 
and  such  silence  that  Mr.  Geoffrey  and  Uncle  Titus 
stopped  short  on  the  Alabama  question,  and  looked  round 
to  see  what  the  matter  was. 

Kenneth  Kincaid  had  been  modestly  listening  to  the 
older  gentlemen,  and  now  and  then  venturing  to  inquire 
or  remark  something,  with  an  intelligence  that  attracted 
Mr.  Geoffrey ;  and  presently  it  came  out  that  he  had  been 
south  with  the  army  ;  and  then  Mr.  Geoffrey  asked  ques- 
tions of  him,  and  they  got  upon  Reconstruction  business, 
and  comparing  facts  and  exchanging  conclusions,  quite  as 
if  one  was  not  a  mere  youth  with  only  his  eyes  and  his 
brains  and  his  conscience  to  help  him  in  his  first  grapple 
with  the  world  in  the  tangle  and  crisis  at  which  he  found 
it,  and  the  other  a  grave,  practiced,  keen-judging  man,  the 
counsellor  of  national  leaders. 

After  all,  they  had  no  business  to  bring  the  great, 
troublesome,  heavy-weighted  world  into  a  child's  party.  I 
wish  men  never  would  ;  though  it  did  not  happen  badly, 
as  it  all  turned  out,  that  they  did  a  little  of  it  in  this 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  115 

instance.  If  they  had  thought  of  it,  "  Crambo  "  was  good 
for  them  too,  for  a  change  ;  and  presently  they  did  think 
of  it ;  for  Dorris  called  out  in  distress,  real  or  pretended, 
from  the  table,  — 

"  Kentie,  here's  something  you  must  really  take  off  my 
hands  !  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  to  do  with  it." 

And  then  came  a  cry  from  Hazel,  — 

"  No  fair  !  We're  all  just  as  badly  off,  and  there  isn't 
one  of  us  that  has  got  a  brother  to  turn  to.  Here's  another 
for  Mr.  Kincaid." 

"  There  are  plenty  more.  Come,  Mr.  Oldways,  Mr. 
Geoffrey,  won't  you  try  '  Crambo  ? '  There's  a  good  deal 
in  it,  as  there  is  in  most  nonsense." 

"  We'll  come  and  see  what  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Geoffrey  ; 
and  so  the  chairs  were  drawn  up,  and  the  gray,  grave 
heads  looked  on  over  the  young  ones. 

"  Why,  Hazel's  got  through !  "  said  Lois,  scratching 
violently  at  her  paper,  and  obliterating  three  obstinate 
lines. 

"  O,  I  didn't  bother,  you  see  !  I  just  stuck  the  word 
right  in,  like  a  pin  into  a  pincushion,  and  let  it  go.  There 
wasn't  anything  else  to  do  with  it." 

"  I've  got  to  make  my  pincushion,"  said  Dorris. 

"  I  should  think  you  had  !  Look  at  her !  She's  writing 
her  paper  all  over  I  O,  my  gracious,  she  must  have  done 
it  before  ! " 

"  Mother  and  Mr.  Geoffrey  are  doing  heaps,  too  !  We 
shall  have  to  publish  a  book,"  said  Diana,  biting  the  end  of 
her  pencil,  and  taking  it  easy.  Diana  hardly  ever  got  the 
rhymes  made  in  time  ;  but  then  she  always  admired  every- 
body's else,  which  was  a  good  thing  for  somebody  to  be  at 
leisure  to  do. 

"  Uncle  Oldways  and  Lilian  are  folding  up,"  said 
Hazel. 


116  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  Five  minutes  more,"  said  Miss  Craydocke,  keeping 
the  time  with  her  watch  before  her.  "  Hush  I" 

When  the  five  minutes  were  rapped  out,  there  were 
seven  papers  to  be  read.  People  who  had  not  finished 
this  time  might  go  on  when  the  others  took  fresh  questions. 

Hazel  began  reading,  because  she  had  been  ready  first. 

" '  What  is  the  difference  between  sponge-cake  and 
doughnuts  ?  '  » Hallelujah.'  " 

" '  Airiness,  lightness,  and  insipidity  ; 
Twistiness,  spiciness,  and  solidity. 
Hallelujah !  I've  got  through  ! 
That  is  the  best  that  I  can  do  ! '" 

There  was  a  shout  at  Hazel's  pinsticking. 

"  Now,  Uncle  Titus  !     You  finished  next." 

"  My  question  is  a  very  comprehensive  one,"  said  Uncle 

Titus,  "  with  a  very  concise  and  suggestive  word.     '  How 

wags  the  world  ?  '     '  Slambang.' ': 

"  '  The  world  wags  on 
With  lies  and  slang ; 
With  show  and  vanity, 
Pride  and  inanity, 
Greed  and  insanity, 
And  a  great  slambang  ! ' " 

"  That's  only  one  verse,"  said  Miss  Craydocke.  "  There's 
another  ;  but  he  didn't  write  it  down." 

Uncle  Titus  laughed,  and  tossed  his  Crambo  on  the 
table.  "  It's  true,  so  far,  anyway,"  said  he. 

*'  tSo  far  is  hardly  ever  quite  true,"  said  Miss  Cray- 
docke. 

Lilian  Ashbume  had  to  answer  the  question  whether 
she  had  ever  read  "Young's  Night  Thoughts ;  "  and  her 
word  was  "  Comet." 

"  '  Pray  might  I  be  allowed  a  pun, 

To  help  me  through  with  just  this  one  ? 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  117 

I've  tried  to  read  Young's  Thoughts  of  Night, 
But  never  yet  could  come  it,  quite.'  " 

"  O,  O,  O  !  That's  just  like  Lilian,  with  her  soft 
little  'prays'  and  'allow  me's,'  and  her  little  pussy-cat 
ways  of  sliding  through  tight  places,  just  touching  her 
whiskers  !  " 

"  It's  quite  fair,"  said  Lilian,  smiling,  "  to  slide  through 
if  you  can." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Geoffrey/' 

And  Mr.  Geoffrey  read, — 

"  *  What  is  your  favorite  color  ?  '     '  One-hoss.'  " 

" '  Do  you  mean,  my  friend,  for  a  one-hoss  shay, 
Or  the  horse  himself,  —  black,  roan,  or  bay  ? 
In  truth,  I  think  I  can  hardly  say  ; 
I  believe,  for  a  nag, "  I  bet  on  the  gray." 

" '  For  a  shay,  I  would  rather  not  have  yellow, 
Or  any  outright,  staring  color, 
That  makes  the  crowd  look  after  a  fellow, 
And  the  little  gamins  hoot  and  bellow. 

"  '  Do  you  mean  for  ribbons  ?  or  gowns  ?  or  eyes  ? 
Or  flowers  ?  or  gems  ?  or  in  sunset  skies  ? 
For  many  questions,  as  many  replies, 
Drops  of  a  rainbow  take  rainbow  dyes. 

" '  The  world  is  full,  and  the  world  is  bright ; 
Each  thing  to  its  nature  parts  the  light ; 
And  each  for  its  own  to  the  Perfect  sight 
Wears  that  which  is  comely,  and  sweet,  and  right.' " 

"  O,  Mr.  Geoffrey  !  That's  lovely !  "  cried  the  girl- 
voices,  all  around  him.  And  Ada  made  a  pair  of  great 
eyes  at  her  father,  and  said,  — 

"  What  an  awful  humbug  you  have  been,  papa  !  To 
have  kept  the  other  side  up  with  care  all  your  life  !  Who 
ever  suspected  that  of  you  ?  " 


118  REAL   FOLKS. 

Diana  and  Hazel  were  not  taken  so  much  by  surprise ; 
their  mother  had  improvised  little  nursery  jingles  for  them 
all  their  baby  days,  and  had  played  Crambo  with  them 
since ;  so  they  were  very  confident  with  their  "  Now, 
mother  :  "  and  looked  calmly  for  something  creditable. 

" '  What  is  your  favorite  name  ? '  "  read  Mrs.  Rip  wink- 
ley.  "  And  the  word  is  '  Stuff.'  " 

"  '  When  I  was  a  little  child, 
Looking  very  meek  and  mild, 
I  liked  grand,  heroic  names,  — 
Of  warriors,  or  stately  dames : 
Zenobia,  and  Cleopatra; 
(No  rhyme  for  that  this  side  Sumatra ;) 
Wallace,  and  Helen  Mar,  —  Clotilda, 
Berengaria,  and  Brunhilda ; 
Maximilian ;  Alexandra ; 
Hector,  Juno,  and  Cassandra ; 
Charlemagne  and  Britomarte, 
Washington  and  Bonaparte ; 
Victoria  and  Guinevere, 
And  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere. 
—  Shall  I  go  on  with  all  this  stuflj 
Or  do  you  think  it  is  enough  1 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  dear  name 
I  love  the  best ;  I  play  a  game ; 
And  tender  earnest  doth  belong 
To  quiet  speech,  not  silly  song.'  " 

"  That's  just  like  mother ;  I  should  have  stopped  as  soon 
as  I'd  got  the  '  stuff'  in ;  but  she  always  shapes  off  with  a 
little  morriowl,"  said  Hazel.  "  Now,  Desire  !  " 

Desire  frantically  scribbled  a  long  line  at  the  end  of  what 
she  had  written ;  below,  that  is,  a  great  black  morass  of 
scratches  that  represented  significantly  the  "  Slough  of 
Despond"  she  had  got  into  over  the  winding  up,  and  then 
gave, — 

"'Which  way  would  you  rather  travel, —  north  or 
south?'  'Goosey-gander.'" 


COCKLES   AND    CRAMBO. 

" '  O,  goosey-gander ! 

If  I  might  wander, 
It  should  be  toward  the  sun ; 

The  blessed  South 

Should  fill  my  mouth 
With  ripeness  just  begun. 

For  bleak  hills,  bare, 

With  stunted,  spare,  . 

And  scrubby,  piney  tree?, 

Her  gardens  rare, 

And  vineyards  fair, 
And  her  rose-scented  breeze. 

For  fearful  blast, 

Skies  overcast, 
And  sudden  blare  and  scare, 

Long,  stormless  moons, 

And  placid  noons, 
And  —  all  sorts  of  comfortablenesses,  —  there ! ' " 

"  That  makes  me  think  of  father's  horse  running  away 
with  him  once,"  said  Helena,  "  when  he  had  to  head  him 
right  up  against  a  brick  wall,  and  knock  everything  all  to 
smash  before  he  could  stop  !  " 

"  Anybody  else  ?  " 

"  Miss  Kincaid,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Geoffrey.  He  had 
been  watching  Dorris's  face  through  the  play,  flashing  and 
smiling  with  the  excitement  of  her  rhyming,  and  the  slen- 
der, nervous  fingers  twisting  tremulously  the  penciled  slip 
while  she  had  listened  to  the  others. 

"  If  it  isn't  all  rubbed  out,"  said  Dorris,  coloring  and 
laughing  to  find  how  badly  she  had  been  treating  her  own 
effusion. 

"  You  see  it  was  rather  an  awful  question,  — '  What  do 
you  want  most  ? '  And  the  word  is,  '  Thirteen.' ' 

She  caught  her  breath  a  little  quickly  as  she  began  :  — 

"  '  Between  yourself,  dear,  myself,  and  the  post, 
There  are  the  thirteen  things  that  I  want  the  most. 


120  REAL   FOLKS. 

I  want  to  be,  sometimes,  a  little  stronger; 

I  want  the  days  to  be  a  little  longer; 

I'd  like  to  have  a  few  less  things  to  do ; 

I'd  better  like  to  better  do  the  few  : 

I  want — and  this  might  almost  lead  my  wishes, — 

A  bigger  place  to  keep  my  mops  and  dishes. 

I  want  a  horse ;  I  want  a  little  buggy, 

To  ride  in  when  the  days  grow  hot  and  muggy ; 

I  want  a  garden ;  and,  —  perhaps  it's  funny,  — 

But  now  and  then  I  want  a  little  money.  . 

I  want  an  easy  way  to  do  my  hair; 

I  want  an  extra  dress  or  two  to  wear ; 

I  want  more  patience  ;  and  when  all  is  given, 

I  think  I  want  to  die  and  go  to  heaven ! ' '; 

"  I  never  saw  such  bright  people  in  all  my  life  !  "  said 
Ada  Geoffrey,  when  the  outcry  of  applause  for  Dorris  had 
subsided,  and  they  began  to  rise  to  go.  "  But  the  worst 
of  all  is  papa !  I'll  never  get  over  it  of  you,  see  if  I  do  ! 
Such  a  cheat !  Why,  it's  like  playing  dumb  all  your  life, 
and  then  just  speaking  up  suddenly  in  a  quiet  way, 
some  day,  as  if  it  was  nothing  particular,  and  nobody 
cared  !  " 

With  Hazel's  little  divining-rod,  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  had 
reached  out,  testing  the  world  for  her,  to  see  what  some 
of  it  might  be  really  made  of.  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  from  her 
side,  had  reached  out  in  turn,  also,  into  this  fresh  and 
simple  opportunity,  to  see  what  might  be  there  worth 
while. 

"  How  was  it,  Aleck  ?  "  she  asked  of  her  husband,  as 
they  sat  together  in  her  dressing-room,  while  she  brushed 
out  her  beautiful  hair. 

"  Brightest  people  I  have  been  among  for  a  long  time  — 
and  nicest,"  said  the  banker,  concisely.  "  A  real,  fresh 
little  home,  with  a  mother  in  it.  Good  place  for  Ada  to 
go,  and  good  girls  for  her  to  know  ;  like  the  ones  I  fell  in 
love  with  a  hundred  years  ago." 


COCKLES  AND  CRAMBO.  121 

"  That  rhymed  oracle,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  fraction 
of  a  compliment,  —  ought  to  settle  it,"  said  Mrs.  Geoffrey, 
laughing. 

"  Rhymes  have  been  the  order  of  the  evening.  I  expect 
to  talk  in  verse  for  a  week  at  least." 

And  then  he  told  her  about  the  "  Crambo." 

A  week  after,  Mrs.  Ledwith  was  astonished  to  find,  lying 
on  the  mantel  in  her  sister's  room,  a  card  that  had  been 
sent  up  the  day  before,  — 

"  MRS.  ALEXANDER  H.  GEOFFREY." 


122  REAL    FOLKS. 

XL, 

MORE    WITCH-WORK. 

TTAZEL  was  asked  to  the  Geoffreys'  to  dinner. 
-*--•-  Before  this,  she  and  Diana  had  both  been  asked  to 
take  tea,  and  spend  an  evening,  but  this  was  Hazel's  little 
especial  "  invite,"  as  she  called  it,  because  she  and  Ada 
were  writing  a  dialogue  together  for  a  composition  at 
school. 

The  Geoffreys  dined  at  the  good  old-fashioned  hour  of 
half  past  two,  except  when  they  had  formal  dinner  com- 
pany ;  and  Hazel  was  to  come  right  home  from  school  with 
Ada,  and  stay  and  spend  the  afternoon. 

"  What  intimacy ! "  Florence  Ledwith  had  exclaimed, 
when  she  heard  of  it. 

"  But  it  isn't  at  all  on  the  grand  style  side  ;  people  like 
the  Geoffreys  do  such  things  quite  apart  from  their  regular 
connection;  it  is  a  sort  of  'behind  the  scenes;'"  said 
Glossy  Megilp,  who  was  standing  at  Florence's  dressing- 
glass,  touching  up  the  little  heap  of  "  friz  "  across  her 
forehead. 

"  Where's  my  poker  ?  "  she  asked,  suddenly,  breaking 
off  from  the  Geoffrey  subject,  and  rummaging  in  a  dressing 
box,  intent  upon  tutoring  some  little  obstinate  loop  of 
hair  that  would  be  too  frizzy. 

"  I  should  think  a  '  blower '  might  be  a  good  thing  to 
add  to  your  tools,  Glossy,"  said  Desire.  "  You  have 
brush,  poker,  and  tongs,  now,  to  say  nothing  of  coal-hod," 
she  added,  glancing  at  the  little  open  japanned  box  that 
held  some  kind  of  black  powder  which  had  to  do  with  the 


WITCH-WORK.     See  p.  122. 


MORE   WITCH-WORK.  123 

shadow  of  Glossy's  eyelashes  upon  occasion,  and  the  em- 
phasis upon  the  delicate  line  of  her  brows. 

"  No  secret/'  said  Glossy,  magnanimously.  "  There  it 
is  I  It  is  no  greater  sin  than  violet  powder,  or  false  tails, 
for  that  matter ;  and  the  little  gap  in  my  left  eyebrow  was 
never  deliberately  designed.  It  was  a  'lapsus  natures;' 
I  only  follow  out  the  hint,  and  complete  the  intention. 
Something  is  left  to  ourselves  ;  as  the  child  said  about  the 
Lord  curling  her  hair  for  her  when  she  was  a  baby  and 
letting  her  do  it  herself  after  she  grew  big  enough.  What 
are  our  artistic  perceptions  given  to  us  for,  unless  we're  to 
make  the  best  of  ourselves  in  the  first  place  ?  " 

"  But  it  isn't  all  eyebrows,"  said  Desire,  half  aloud. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Glossy  Megilp.  "  Twice  a  day 
I  have  to  do  myself  up  somehow,  and  why  shouldn't  it  be 
as  well  as  I  can  ?  Other  things  come  in  their  turn,  and  I 
do  them." 

"  But,  you  see,  the  friz  and  the  fix  has  to  be,  anyhow, 
whether  or  no.  Everything  isn't  done,  whether  or  no.  I 
guess  it's  the  '  first  place,'  that's  the  matter." 

"  I  think  you  have  a  very  theoretical  mind,  Des,  and  a 
slightly  obscure  style.  You  can't  be  satisfied  till  every- 
thing is  all  mapped  out,  and  organized,  and  justified,  and 
you  get  into  horrible  snarls  trying  to  do  it.  If  I  were  you, 
I  would  take  things  a  little  more  as  they  come." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Desire.  "  They  come  hind  side  before 
and  upside  down." 

"Well,  if  everybody  is  upside  down,  there's  a  view  of  it 
that  makes  it  all  right  side  up,  isn't  there  ?  It  seems  to 
be  an  established  fact  that  we  must  dress  and  undress,  and 
that  the  first  duty  of  the  day  is  to  get  up  and  put  on  our 
clothes.  We  aren't  ready  for  much  until  we  do.  And 
one  person's  dressing  may  require  one  thing,  and  another's 


124  REAL   FOLKS. 

another.  Some  people  have  a  cork  leg  to  put  on,  and 
some  people  have  false  teeth ;  and  they  wouldn't  any  of 
them  come  hobbling  or  mumbling  out  without  them,  un- 
less there  was  a  fire  or  an  earthquake,  I  suppose." 

Glossy  Megilp's  arguments  and  analogies  perplexed  De- 
sire, always.  They  sometimes  silenced  her  ;  but  they  did 
not  always  answer  her.  She  went  back  to  what  they  had 
been  discussing  before. 

"  To  '  lay  down  the  shubbel  and  the  hoe,'  —  here's  your 
poker,  under  the  table-flounce,  Glossy,  —  and  to  *  take  up 
the  fiddle  and  the  bow,'  again,  —  I  think  it's  real  nice  and 
beautiful  for  Hazel  —  " 

"  To  '  go  where  the  good  darkies  go '  ?  " 

"  Yes.     It's  the  good  of  her  that's  got  her  in.     And  I 
believe  you  and  Florence  both  would  give  your  best  boots 
to  be  there  too,  if  it  is  behind.     Behind  the  fixings  and 
the  fashions  is  where  people  live  ;  '  dere's  vat  I  za-ay  ! ' 
she  ended,  quoting  herself  and  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

"  Maybe,"  said  Florence,  carelessly ;  "  but  I'd  as  lief  be 
in  the  fashion,  after  all.  And  that's  where  Hazel  Rip- 
winkley  never  will  get,  with  all  her  taking  little  novelties." 

Meanwhile,  Hazel  Ripwinkley  was  deep  in  the  delights 
of  a  great  portfolio  of  rare  engravings ;  prints  of  glorious 
frescoes  in  old  churches,  and  designs  of  splendid  architec- 
ture ;  and  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  seeing  her  real  pleasure,  was 
sitting  beside  her,  turning  over  the  large  sheets,  and  ex- 
plaining them ;  telling  her,  as  she  gazed  into  the  wonderful 
faces  of  the  Saints  and  the  Evangelists  in  Correggio's 
frescoes  of  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  at  Parma,  how  the 
whole  dome  was  one  radiant  vision  of  heavenly  glory,  with 
clouds  and  angel  faces,  and  adoring  apostles,  and  Christ 
the  Lord  high  over  all ;  and  that  these  were  but  the  filling 
in  between  the  springing  curves  of  the  magnificent  arches  j 


MORE   WITCH-WORK. 

describing  to  her  the  Abbess's  room  in  San  Paolo,  with  its 
strange,  beautiful  heathen  picture  over  the  mantel,  of 
Diana  mounting  her  stag-drawn  car,  and  its  circular  walls 
painted  with  trellis- work  and  medallioned  with  windows, 
where  the  heads  of  little  laughing  children,  and  graceful, 
gentle  animals  peeped  in  from  among  vines  and  flowers. 

Mrs.  Geoffrey  did  not  wonder  that  Hazel  lingered  with 
delight  over  these  or  over  the  groups  by  Raphael  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel, —  the  quiet  pendentives,  where  the  waiting 
of  the  world  for  its  salvation  was  typified  in  the  dream-like, 
reclining  forms  upon  the  still,  desert  sand ;  or  the  wonderful 
scenes  from  the  "  Creation,"  —  the  majestic  "  Let  there  be 
Light !  "  and  the  Breathing  of  the  breath  of  life  into  Man. 
She  watched  the  surprise  and  awe  with  which  the  child 
beheld  for  the  first  time  the  daring  of  inspiration  in  the 
tremendous  embodiment  of  the  Almighty,  and  waited  while 
she  could  hardly  take  her  eyes  away.  But  when,  after- 
ward, they  turned  to  a  portfolio  of  Architecture,  and  she 
found  her  eager  to  examine  spires  and  arches  and  capitals, 
rich  reliefs  and  stately  facades  and  sculptured  gates,  and 
exclaiming  with  pleasure  at  the  colored  drawings  of  Flor- 
entine ornamentation,  she  wondered,  and  questioned  her,  — 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  such  things  before  ?  Do  you 
draw  ?  I  should  hardly  think  you  would  care  so  much,  at 
your  age." 

"I  like  the  prettiness,"  said  Hazel,  simply,  "and  the 
grandness ;  but  I  don't  suppose  I  should  care  so  much  if 
it  wasn't  for  Dorris  and  Mr.  Kincaid.  Mr.  Kincaid  draws 
buildings;  he's  an  architect;  only  he  hasn't  architected 
much  yet,  because  the  people  that  build  things  don't  know 
him.  Dorris  was  so  glad  to  give  him  a  Christmas  present 
of  'Daguerreotypes  de  Paris,'  with  the  churches  and 
arches  and  bridges  and  things ;  she  got  it  at  a  sale  ;  I 
wonder  what  they  would  say  to  all  these  beauties !  " 


126  REAL    FOLKS. 

Then  Mrs.  Geoffery  found  what  still  more  greatly  en- 
chanted her,  a  volume  of  engravings,  of  English  Home 
Architecture  ;  interiors  of  old  Halls,  magnificent  staircases, 
lofty  libraries  and  galleries  dim  with  space ;  exteriors,  ga- 
bled, turreted  and  towered ;  long,  rambling  piles  of  manor 
houses,  with  mixed  styles  of  many  centuries. 

"  They  look  as  if  they  were  brimfull  of  stories  !  "  Ha- 
zel cried.  "  O,  if  I  could  only  carry  it  home  to  show  to 
the  Kincaids  ! " 

"  You  may,"  said  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  as  simply,  in  her  turn, 
as  if  she  were  lending  a  copy  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe  ; " 
never  letting  the  child  guess  by  a  breath  of  hesitation  the 
value  of  what  she  had  asked. 

"  And  tell  me  more  about  these  Kincaids.  They  are 
friends  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  we've  known  them  all  winter.  They  live  right 
opposite,  and  sit  in  the  windows,  drawing  and  writing. 
Dorris  keeps  house  up  there  in  two  rooms.  The  little  one 
is  her  bedroom  ;  and  Mr.  Kincaid  sleeps  on  the  big  sofa. 
Dorris  makes  crackle-cakes,  and  asks  us  over.  She  cooks 
with  a  little  gas-stove.  I  think  it  is  beautiful  to  keep 
house  with  not  very  much  money.  She  goes  out  with  a 
cunning  white  basket  and  buys  her  things  ;  and  she  does 
all  her  work  up  in  a  corner  on  a  white  table,  with  a  piece 
of  oil-cloth  on  the  floor;  and  then  she  comes  over  into 
her  parlor,  she  says,  and  sits  by  the  window.  It's  a  kind 
of  a  play  all  the  time." 

"  And  Mr.  Kincaid  ?  " 

"  Dorris  says  he  might  have  been  rich  by  this  time,  if 
he  had  gone  into  his  Uncle  James's  office  in  New  York. 
Mr.  James  Kincaid  is  a  broker,  and  buys  gold.  But  Ken- 
neth says  gold  stands  for  work,  and  if  he  ever  has  any 
he'll  buy  it  with  work.  He  wants  to  do  some  real  thing. 
Don't  you  think  that's  nice  of  him  ?  " 


MORE   WITCH-WORK.  127 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  "  And  Dorris  is  that 
bright  girl  who  wanted  thirteen  things,  and  rhymed  them 
into  '  Crambo  ? '  Mr.  Geoffrey  told  me." 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  Dorris  can  do  almost  anything." 

"I  should  like  to  see  Dorris,  sometime.  Will  you 
bring  her  here,  Hazel  ?  " 

Hazel's  little  witch-rod  felt  the  almost  impassible  some- 
thing in  the  way. 

"  I  don't  know  as  she  would  be  brought"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Geoffrey  laughed. 

"  You  have  an  instinct  for  the  fine  proprieties,  without 
a  bit  of  respect  for  any  conventional  fences,"  she  said. 
"  I'll  ask  Dorris." 

"  Then  I'm  sure  she'll  come,"  said  Hazel,  understanding 
quite  well  and  gladly  the  last  three  words,  and  passing 
over  the  first  phrase  as  if  it  had  been  a  Greek  motto,  put 
there  to  be  skipped. 

"  Ada  has  stopped  practicing,"  said  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  who 
had  undertaken  the  entertainment  of  her  little  guest  dur- 
ing her  daughter's  half  hour  of  music.  u  She  will  be  wait- 
ing for  you  now." 

Hazel  instantly  jumped  up. 

But  she  paused  after  three  steps  toward  the  door,  to  say 
gently,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  with  a  shy  glance 
out  of  her  timidly  clear  eyes,  — 

"  Perhaps,  —  I  hope  I  haven't,  —  stayed  too  long  !  " 

"  Come  back,  you  little  hazel-sprite  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Geof- 
frey ;  and  when  she  got  her  within  reach  again,  she  put 
her  hands  one  each  side  of  the  little  blushing,  gleaming 
face,  and  kissed  it,  saying,  — 

"  I  don't  think,  —  I'm  slow,  usually,  in  making  up  my 
mind  about  people,  big  or  little,  —  but  I  don't  think  you 
can  stay  too  long,  —  or  come  too  often,  dear  I ' 


128  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  I've  found  another  for  you,  Aleck, "  she  said,  that 
night  at  the  hair-brushing,  to  her  husband. 

He  always  came  to  sit  in  her  dressing-room,  then  ;  and 
it  was  at  this  quiet  time  that  they  gave  each  other,  out  of 
the  day  they  had  lived  in  their  partly  separate  ways  and 
duties,  that  which  made  it  for  each  like  a  day  lived  twice, 
so  that  the  years  of  their  life  counted  up  double. 

"  He  is  a  young  architect,  who  '  hasn't  architected  much, 
because  he  doesn't  know  the  people  who  build  things ;  ' 
and  he  wouldn't  be  a  gold  broker  with  his  uncle  in  New 
York,  because  he  believes  in  doing  money's  worth  in  the 
world  for  the  world's  money.  Isn't  he  one  ?  " 

"Sounds  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Geoffrey.  "What  is  his 
name  ?  " 

"  Kincaid." 

"  Nephew  of  James  R.  Kincaid  ?  "  said  Mr.  Geoffrey, 
with  an  interrogation  that  was  also  an  exclamation.  "And 
wouldn't  go  in  with  him  !  Why,  it  was  just  to  have 
picked  up  dollars  !  " 

"  Exactly,"  replied  his  wife.  "  That  was  what  he  ob- 
jected to." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  fellow." 

"  Don't  you  remember  ?  You  have  seen  him  !  The 
night  you  went  for  Ada  to  the  Aspen  Street  party,  and 
got  into  '  Crambo.'  He  was  there  ;  and  it  was  his  sister 
who  wanted  thirteen  things.  I  guess  they  do  !  " 

"  Ask  them  here,"  said  the  banker. 

"  I  mean  to,"  Mrs.  Geoffrey  answered.  "  That  is,  after 
I've  seen  Hapsie  Craydocke.  She  knows  everything. 
I'll  go  there  to-morrow  morning." 

"  '  Behind '  is  a  pretty  good  way  to  get  in  —  to  some 
places,"  said  Desire  Ledwith,  coming  into  the  rose-pink 


MORE   WITCH-WORK.  129 

room  with  news.  "Especially  an  omnibus.  And  the 
Ripwinkleys,  and  the  Kincaids,  and  old  Miss  Craydocke, 
and  for  all  I  know,  Mrs.  Scarup  and  Luclarion  Grapp  are 
going  to  Summit  Street  to  tea  to-night.  Boston  is  topsy- 
turvey  ;  Holmes  was  a  prophet ;  and  *  Brattle  Street  and 
Temple  Place  are  interchanging  cards !  '  Mother,  we 
ought  to  get  intimate  with  the  family  over  the  grocer's 
shop.  Who  knows  what  would  come  of  it  ?  There  are 
fairies  about  in  disguise,  I'm  sure  ;  or  else  it's  the  mil- 
lenium.  Whichever  it  is,  it's  all  right  for  Hazel,  though ; 
she's  ready.  Don't  you  feel  like  foolish  virgins,  Flo  and 
Nag?  I  do." 

I  am  afraid  it  was  when  Desire  felt  a  little  inclination 
to  "  nag  "  her  elder  sister,  that  she  called  her  by  that  rep- 
rehensible name.  Agatha  only  looked  lofty,  and  vouch- 
safed no  reply  ;  but  Florence  said,  — 

"  There's  no  need  of  any  little  triumphs  or  mortifi- 
cations. Nobody  crows,  and  nobody  cries.  I'm  glad. 
Diana's  a  dear,  and  Hazel's  a  duck,  besides  being  my 
cousins  ;  why  shouldn't  I  ?  Only  there  is  a  large  hole 
for  the  cats,  and  a  little  hole  for  the  kittens ;  and  I'd  as 
lief,  myself,  go  in  with  the  cats." 

"  The  Marchbankses  are  staying  there,  and  Professor 
Gregory.  I  don't  know  about  cats,"  said  Desire,  de- 
murely. 

"  It's  a  reason-why  party,  for  all  that,"  said  Agatha, 
carelessly,  recovering  her  good  humor. 

"  Well,  when  any  nice  people  ask  me,  I  hope  there  will 
be  a  '  reason  why.'  It's  the  persons  of  consequence  that 
make  the  '  reason  why.'  " 

And  Desire  had  the  last  word. 

Hazel  Ripwinkley  was  thinking  neither  of  large  holes 
9 


130  REAL   POLKS.    . 

nor  little  ones,  —  cats  nor  kittens  ;  she  was  saying  to  Lu- 
clarion,  sitting  in  her  shady  down-stairs  room  behind  the 
kitchen,  that  looked  out  into  the  green  yard  corner,  "  how 
nicely  things  came  out,  after  all !  " 

"  They  seemed  so  hobblety  at  first,  when  I  went  up 
there  and  saw  all  those  beautiful  books,  and  pictures,  and 
people  living  amongst  them  every  day,  and  the  poor  Kin- 
caids  not  getting  the  least  bit  of  a  stretch  out  of  their  cor- 
ner, ever.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  thought,  Luclarion  ;  "  and 
here  she  almost  whispered,  "  I  truly  did.  I  thought  God 
was  making  a  mistake." 

Luclarion  put  out  her  lips  into  a  round,  deprecating 
pucker,  at  that,  and  drew  in  her  breath,  — 

«Oo  —  sh!" 

"  Well,  I  mean  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  a  mistake 
somewhere  ;  and  that  I'd  no  business,  at  any  rate,  with 
what  they  wanted  so.  I  couldn't  get  over  it  until  I  asked 
for  those  pictures ;  and  mother  said  it  was  such  a  bold 
thing  to  do  !  " 

"  It  was  bold,"  said  Luclarion ;  "  but  it  wasn't  forrud. 
It  was  gi'n  you,  and  it  hit  right.  That  was  looked  out 
for." 

"  It's  a  stumpy  world,"  said  Luclarion  Grapp  to  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley,  afterward ;  "  but  some  folks  step  right  over 
their  stumps  athout  scarcely  knowin'  when  !  " 


CRUMBS.  131 

XII. 

CRUMBS. 

"IPvESIRE  LED  WITH  was,  at  this  epoch,  a  perplexity 
-^-^  and  a  worry,  —  even  a  positive  terror  sometimes, — 
to  her  mother. 

It  was  not  a  case  of  the  hen  hatching  ducks :   it  was 

o  ' 

rather  as  if  a  hen  had  got  a  hawk  in  her  brood. 

Desire's  demurs  and  questions,  —  her  dissatisfactions, 
siftings  and  contempts,  —  threatened  now  and  then  to 
swoop  down  upon  the  family  life  and  comfort  with  de- 
stroying talons. 

u  She'll  be  an  awful,  strong-minded,  radical,  progressive, 
overturning  woman,"  Laura  said,  in  despair,  to  her  friend 
Mrs.  Megilp.  "  And  Greenley  Street,  and  Aspen  Street, 
and  that  everlasting  Miss  Craydocke,  are  making  her 
worse.  And  what  can  I  do  ?  Because  there's  Uncle." 

Right  before  Desire,  —  not  knowing  the  cloud  of  real 
bewilderment  that  was  upon  her  young  spiritual  percep- 
tions, getting  their  first  glimpse  of  a  tangled  and  conflict- 
ing and  distorted  world,  —  she  drew  wondering  comparisons 
between  her  elder  children  and  this  odd,  anxious,  restless, 
sharp-spoken  girl. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  she  would  say.  "  It  isn't  a 
bit  like  a  child  of  mine.  I  always  took  things  easy,  and 
got  the  comfort  of  them  somehow ;  I  think  the  world  is  a 
pretty  pleasant  place  to  live  in,  and  there's  lots  of  satis- 
faction to  be  had  ;  and  Agatha  and  Florence  take  after 
me  ;  they  are  nice,  good-natured,  contented  girls ;  manag- 
ing their  allowances,  —  that  I  wish  were  more,  —  trim- 


132  REAL   FOLKS. 

ming  their  own  bonnets,  and  enjoying  themselves  with 
their  friends,  girl-fashion." 

Which  was  true.  Agatha  and  Florence  were  neither 
fretful  nor  dissatisfied  ;  they  were  never  disrespectful,  per- 
haps because  Mrs.  Ledwith  demanded  less  of  deferential 
observance  than  of  a  kind  of  jolly  companionship  from  her 
daughters ;  a  go-and-come  easiness  in  and  out  of  what 

O  '  o 

they  called  their  home,  but  which  was  rather  the  trim- 
ming-up  and  outfitting  place,  —  a  sort  of  Holmes'  Hole, — 
where  they  put  in  spring  and  fall,  for  a  thorough  overhaul 
and  rig ;  and  at  other  times,  in  intervals  or  emergencies, 
between  their  various  and  continual  social  trips  and  cruises. 
They  were  hardly  ever  all-togetherish,  as  Desire  had  said  ; 
if  they  ever  were,  it  was  over  house  cleaning  and  millinery ; 
when  the  ordering  was  complete,  —  when  the  wardrobes 
were  finished,  —  then  the  world  was  let  in,  or  they  let 
themselves  out,  and  —  "  looked." 

"  Desire  is  different,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith.  "  She's  like 
Grant's  father,  and  her  Aunt  Desire,  —  pudgicky  and 
queer." 

"  Well,  mamma,"  said  the  child,  once,  driven  to  desper- 
ate logic  for  defense,  "  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  helped. 
If  you  will  marry  into  the  Ledwith  family,  you  can't  expect 
to  have  your  children  all  Shieres !  " 

Which,  again,  was  very  true.  Laura  laughed  at  the 
clever  sharpness  of  it,  and  was  more  than  half  proud  of 
her  bold  chick-of-prey,  after  all. 

Yet  Desire  remembered  that  her  Aunt  Frances  was 
a  Shiere,  also ;  and  she  thought  there  might  easily  be 
two  sides  to  the  same  family ;  why  not,  since  there  were 
two  sides  still  further  back,  always  ?  There  was  Uncle 
Titus ;  who  knew  but  it  was  the  Oldways  streak  in  her, 
after  all  ? 


CRUMBS.  133 

Desire  took  refuge,  more  and  more,  with  Miss  Cray- 
docke,  and  Rachel  Froke,  and  the  Ripwinkleys ;  she  even 
went  to  Luclarion  with  questions,  to  get  her  quaint  notions 
of  things ;  and  she  had  ventured  into  Uncle  Titus's  study, 
and  taken  down  volumes  of  Swedenborg  to  pry  into, 
while  he  looked  at  her  with  long  keen  regards  over  his 
spectacles,  and  she  did  not  know  that  she  was  watched. 

"  That  young  girl,  Desire,  is  restless,  Titus,"  Rachel 
Froke  said  to  him  one  day.  "  She  is  feeling  after  some- 
thing ;  she  wants  something  real  to  do ;  and  it  appears 
likely  to  me  that  she  will  do  it,  if  they  don't  take  care." 

After  that,  Uncle  Titus  fixed  his  attention  upon  her 
yet  more  closely ;  and  at  this  time  Desire  stumbled  upon 
things  in  a  strange  way  among  his  bookshelves,  and 
thought  that  Rachel  Froke  was  growing  less  precise  in 
her  fashion  of  putting  to  rights.  Books  were  tucked  in 
beside  each  other  as  if  they  had  been  picked  up  and  be- 
stowed anyhow ;  between  "  Heaven  and  Hell "  and  the 
"  Four  Leading  Doctrines,"  she  found,  one  day,  "  Mac- 
donald's  Unspoken  Sermons,"  and  there  was  a  leaf  doubled 
lengthwise  in  the  chapter  about  the  White  Stone  and  the 
New  Name.  Another  time,  a  little  book  of  poerns,  by  the 
same  author,  was  slid  in,  open,  over  the  volumes  of  Darwin 
and  Huxley,  and  the  pages  upon  whose  outspread  faces  it  lay 
were  those  that  bore  the  rhyme  of  the  blind  Bartimeus :  — 

"  0  Jesus  Christ !  I  am  deaf  and  blind ; 
Nothing  comes  through  into  my  mind, 

I  only  am  not  dumb  : 
Although  I  see  Thee  not,  nor  hear, 
I  cry  because  Thou  mayst  be  near. 

O  Son  of  Mary !  come ! " 

Do  you  think  a  girl  of  seventeen  may  not  be  feeling 
out  into  the  spiritual  dark,  —  may  not  be  stretching  help- 


134  EEAL   FOLKS. 

less  hands,  vaguely,  toward  the  Hands  that  help  ?  Desire 
Ledwith  laid  the  book  down  again,  with  a  great  swelling 
breath  coming  up  slowly  out  of  her  bosom,  and  with  a 
warmth  of  tears  in  her  earnest  little  eyes.  And  Uncle 
Titus  Oldways  sat  there  among  his  papers,  and  never 
moved,  or  seemed  to  look,  but  saw  it  all. 

He  never  said  a  word  to  her  himself;  it  was  not  Uncle 
Titus's  way  to  talk,  and  few  suspected  him  of  having  any- 
thing to  say  in  such  matters  ;  but  he  went  to  Friend  Froke 
and  asked  her,  — 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  light  that  might  shine  a  little  for 
that  child,  Rachel  ?  " 

And  the  next  Sunday,  in  the  forenoon,  Desire  came  in ; 
came  in,  without  knowing  it,  for  her  little  light. 

She  had  left  home  with  the  family  on  their  way  to 
church ;  she  was  dressed  in  her  buff  silk  pongee  suit 
trimmed  with  golden  brown  bands  and  quillings ;  she  had 
on  a  lovely  new  brown  hat  with  tea  roses  in  it ;  her  gloves 
and  boots  were  exquisite  and  many  buttoned  ;  Agatha  and 
Florence  could  not  think  what  was  the  matter  when  she 
turned  back,  up  Dorset  Street,  saying  suddenly,  "  I 
won't  go,  after  all."  And  then  she  had  walked  straight 
over  the  hill  and  down  to  Greenley  Street,  and  came  in 
upon  Rachel,  sitting  alone  in  a  quiet  gray  parlor  that  was 
her  own,  where  there  were  ferns  and  ivies  in  the  window, 
and  a  little  canary,  dressed  in  brown  and  gold  like  Desire 
herself,  swung  over  them  in  a  white  wire  cage. 

When  Desire  saw  how  still  it  was,  and  how  Rachel 
Froke  sat  there  with  her  open  window  and  her  open  book, 
all  by  herself,  she  stopped  in  the  doorway  with  a  sudden 
feeling  of  intrusion,  which  .had  not  occurred  to  her  as  she 
came. 

"It's  just   what  I   want    to   come  into;  but  if  I  do,  it 


CRUMBS.  135 

won't  be  there.     I've  no  right  to  spoil  it.     Don't  mind, 
Rachel.     I'll  go  away." 

She  said  it  softly  and  sadly,  as  if  she  could  not  help  it ; 
and  was  turning  back  into  the  hall. 

"  But  I  do  mind,"  said  Rachel,  speaking  quickly.  "  Thee 
will  come  in,  and  sit  down.  Whatever  it  is  thee  wants,  is 
here  for  thee.  Is  it  the  stillness  ?  Then  we  will  be  still." 

"  That's  so  easy  to  say.  But  you  can't  do  it  for  me. 
You  will  be  still,  and  I  shall  be  all  in  a  stir.  I  want  so 
to  be  just  hushed  up  !  " 

';  Fed,  and  hushed  up,  in  somebody's  arms,  like  a  baby. 
I  know,"  said  Rachel  Froke. 

"  How  does  she  know  ?  "  thought  Desire  ;  but  she  only 
looked  at  her  with  surprised  eyes,  saying  nothing. 

"Hungry  and  restless ;  that's  what  we  all  are,"  said 
Rachel  Froke,  "  until  "  — 

"  Well,  —  until  ?  "  demanded  the  strange  girl,  impetu- 
ously, as  Rachel  paused.  "  I've  been  hungry  ever  since  I 
was  born,  mother  says." 

"  Until  He  takes  us  up  and  feeds  us." 

"  Why  don't  He  ?  —  Mrs.  Froke,  when  does  He  give  it 
out  ?  Once  a  month,  in  church,  they  have  the  bread  and 
the  wine  ?  Does  that  do  it  ?  " 

"  Thee  knows  we  do  not  hold  by  ordinances,  we 
Friends,"  said  Rachel.  "  But  He  gives  the  bread  of  life. 
Not  once  a  month,  or  in  any  place  ;  it  is  his  word.  Does 
thee  get  no  word  when  thee  goes  to  church  ?  Does  noth- 
ing come  to  thee  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  it's  mixed  up  ;  the  church  is  full  of 
bonnets  ;  and  people  settle  their  gowns  when  they  come  in, 
and  shake  out  their  hitches  and  puffs  when  they  go  out,  and 
there's  professional  music  at  one  end,  and  —  I  suppose 
it's  because  I'm  bad,  but  I  don't  know;  half  the  time  it: 


136  REAL   FOLKS. 

seems  to  me  it's  only  Mig  at  the  other.  Something  all 
fixed  up,  and  patted  down,  and  smoothed  over,  and  salted 
and  buttered,  like  the  potato  hills  they  used  to  make  on  my 
plate  for  me  at  dinner,  when  I  was  little.  But  it's  soggy 
after  all,  and  has  an  underground  taste.  It  isn't  anything 
that  has  just  grown,  up  in  the  light,  like  the  ears  of  corn 
they  rubbed  in  their  hands.  Breakfast  is  better  than  din- 
ner. Bread,  with  yeast  in  it,  risen  up  new.  They  don't 
feed  with  bread  very  often." 

"  The  yeast  in  the  bread,  and  the  sparkle  in  the  wine ; 
they  are  the  life  of  it ;  they  are  what  make  the  signs." 

"  If  they  only  gave  it  out  fresh,  and  a  little  of  it !  But 
they  keep  it  over,  and  it  grows  cold  and  tough  and  flat ; 
and  people  sit  round  and  pretend,  but  they  don't  eat. 
They've  eaten  other  things,  —  all  sorts  of  trash,  —  before 
they  came.  They've  spoiled  their  appetites.  Mine  was 
spoiled,  to-day.  I  felt  so  new  and  fussy,  in  these  brown 
things.  So  I  turned  round,  and  came  here." 

Mr.  Oldways'  saying  came  back  into  Mrs.  Froke's 
mind :  — 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  light,  Rachel,  that  might  shine 
a  little  for  that  child?" 

Perhaps  that  was  what  the  child  had  come  for. 

What  had  the  word  of  the  Spirit  been  to  Rachel  Froke 
this  day  ?  The  new,  fresh  word,  with  the  leaven  in  it  ? 
"  A  little  of  it ;  "  that  was  what  she  wanted. 

Rachel  took  up  the  small  red  Bible  that  lay  on  the  light- 
stand  beside  her. 

"  I'll  will  give  thee  my  First-Day  crumb,  Desire,"  she 
said.  "  It  may  taste  sweet  to  thee." 

She  turned  to  Revelation,  seventh  chapter. 

"  Look  over  with  me ;  thee  will  see  then  where  the 
crumb  is,"  she  said ;  and  as  Desire  came  near  and 


CRUMBS.  137 

looked  over  her  upon  the  page,  she  read  from  the  last 
two  verses  :  — 

"  They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more. 

"  For  the  Tenderness  that  is  in  the  midst  of  the  Al- 
mightiness  shall  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  them  unto  livino- 
fountains  of  water  ;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  their  eyes." 

Her  voice  lingered  over  -the  words  she  put  for  the 
"Lamb"  and  the  "Throne,"  so  that  she  said  "Tender- 
ness "  with  its  own  very  yearning  inflection,  and  "  Al- 
mightiness  "  with  a  strong  fullness,  glad  in  that  which  can 
never  fall  short  or  be  exhausted.  Then  she  softly  laid 
over  the  cover,  and  sat  perfectly  still.  It  was  the  Quaker 
silence  that  falls  upon  them  in  their  assemblies,  leaving 
each  heart  to  itself  and  that  which  the  Spirit  has  given. 

Desire  was  hushed  all  through  ;  something  living  and 
real  had  thrilled  into  her  thought ;  her  restlessness  quieted 
suddenly  under  it,  as  Mary  stood  quiet  before  the  message 
of  the  angel. 

When  she  did  speak  again,  after  a  time,  as  Rachel 
Froke  broke  the  motionless  pause  by  laying  the  book 
gently  back  again  upon  the  table,  it  was  to  say,  — 

"  Why  don't  they  preach  like  that,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  preach  itself?  A  Sermon  means  a  Word;  why  don't 
they  just  say  the  word,  and  let  it  go  ?  " 

The  Friend  made  no  reply. 

"I  never  could  —  quite  —  like  that  about  the  'Lamb,' 
before,"  said  Desire,  hesitatingly.  "  It  seemed,  —  I  don't 
know,  —  putting  Him  down,  somehow ;  making  him  tame ; 
taking  the  grandness  away  that  made  the  gentleness  any 
good.  But,  —  *  Tenderness  ; '  that  is  beautiful !  Does  it 
mean  so  in  the  other  place  ?  About  taking  away  the  sin^, 
—  do  you  think  ?  " 


138  REAL   FOLKS. 

"  *  The  Tenderness  of  God  —  the  Compassion  —  that 
taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world  ?  '  Mrs.  Froke  re- 
peated, half  inquiringly.  "  Jesus  Christ,  God's  Heart  of 
Love  toward  man  ?  I  think  it  is  so.  I  think,  child,  thee 
has  got  thy  crumb  also,  to-day." 

But  not  all  yet. 

Pretty  soon,  they  heard  the  front  door  open,  and  Uncle 
Titus  come  in.  Another  step  was  behind  his  ;  and  Ken- 
neth Kincaid's  voice  was  speaking,  about  some  book  he 
had  called  to  take. 

Desire's  face  flushed,  and  her  manner  grew  suddenly 
flurried. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  starting  up ;  yet  when  she  got 
to  the  door,  she  paused  and  delayed. 

The  voices  were  talking  on,  in  the  study ;  somehow, 
Desire  had  last  words  also,  to  say  to  Mrs.  Froke. 

She  was  partly  shy  about  going  past  that  open  door, 
and  partly  afraid  they  might  not  notice  her  if  she  did. 
Back  in  her  girlish  thought  was  a  secret  suggestion  that 
she  was  pushing  at  all  the  time  with  a  certain  self-scorn 
and  denial,  that  it  might  happen  that  she  and  Kenneth 
Kincaid  would  go  out  at  the  same  moment ;  if  so,  he 
would  walk  up  the  street  with  her,  and  Kenneth  Kincaid 
was  one  of  the  few  persons  whom  Desire  Ledwith  thor- 
oughly believed  in  and  liked.  "  There  was  no  Mig  about 
him,"  she  said.  It  is  hazardous  when  a  girl  of  seventeen 
makes  one  of  her  rare  exceptions  in  her  estimate  of  char- 
acter in  favor  of  a  man  of  six  and  twenty. 

Yet  Desire  Ledwith  hated  "  nonsense  ;  "  she  wouldn't 
have  anybody  sending  her  bouquets  as  they  did  to  Agatha 
and  Florence  ;  she  had  an  utter  contempt  for  lavender 
pantaloons  and  waxed  moustaches  ;  but  for  Kenneth  Kin- 
caid, with  his  honest,  clear  look  at  life,  and  his  high  strong 


CRUMBS.  139 

purpose,  to  say  friendly  things,  —  tell  her  a  little  now  and 
then  of  how  the  world  looked  to  him  and  what  it  de- 
manded, —  this  lifted  her  up  ;  this  made  it  seem  worth 
while  to  speak  and  to  hear. 

So  she  was  very  glad  when  Uncle  Titus  saw  her  go 
down  the  hall,  after  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  that 
way  lay  her  straight  path,  and  that  things  contrived  were 
not  things  worth  happening,  —  and  spoke  out  her  name, 
so  that  she  had  to  stop,  and  turn  to  the  open  doorway  and 
reply  ;  and  Kenneth  Kincaid  came  over  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  her.  He  had  two  books  in  the  other,  —  a  volume 
of  Bunsen  and  a  copy  of  "  Guild  Court,"  —  and  he  was 
just  ready  to  go. 

"  Not  been  to  church  to-day  ? "  said  Uncle  Titus  to 
Desire. 

"  I've  been  —  to  Friend's  Meeting,"  the  girl  answered. 

"Get  anything  by  that  ?  "  he  asked,  gruffly,  letting  the 
shag  down  over  his  eyes  that  behind  it  beamed  softly. 

"  Yes  ;  a  morsel,"  replied  Desire.     "  All  I  wanted." 

"  All  you  wanted  ?     Well,  that's  a  Sunday-full !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  think  it  is,"  said  she. 

When  they  got  out  upon  the  sidewalk,  Kenneth  Kin- 
caid asked,  "  Was  it  one  of  the  morsels  that  may  be 
shared,  Miss  Desire?  Some  crumbs  multiply  by  divid- 
ing, you  know." 

"  It  was  only  a  verse  out  of  the  Bible,  with  a  new  word 
in  it." 

"  A  new  word  ?  Well,  I  think  Bible  verses  often  have 
that.  I  suppose  it  was  what  they  were  made  for." 

Desire's  glance  at  him  had  a  question  in  it. 

"  Made  to  look  different  at  different  times,  as  every- 
thing does  that  has  life  in  it.  Isn't  that  true  ?  Clouds, 
trees,  faces,  —  do  they  ever  look  twice  the  same  ?  " 


REAL    FOLKS. 


"  Yes,"  said  Desire,  thinking  especially  of  the  faces. 
"I  think.  they  do,  or  ought  to.  But  they  may  look  more." 

"  I  didn't  say  contradictory.  To  look  more,  there 
must  be  a  difference  ;  a  fresh  aspect.  And  that  is  what 
the  world  is  full  of;  and  the  world  is  the  word  of  God." 

"  The  world  ?  "  said  Desire,  who  had  been  taught  in  a 
dried  up,  mechanical  sort  of  way,  that  the  Bible  is  the 
word  of  God  ;  and  practically  left  to  infer  that,  that  point 
once  settled,  it  might  be  safely  shut  up  between  its  covers 
and  not  much  meddled  with,  certainly  not  over  freely  in- 
terpreted. 

"  Yes.  What  God  had  to  say.  In  the  beginning  was 
the  Word,  and  the  Word  was  God.  Without  him  was 
not  anything  made  that  was  made." 

Desire's  face  brightened.  She  knew  those  words  by 
heart.  They  were  the  first  Sunday-school  lesson  she 
ever  committed  to  memory,  out  of  the  New  Testament  ; 
"  down  to  '  grace  and  truth,'  "  as  she  recollected.  What 
a  jumble  of  repetitions  it  had  been  to  her,  then  !  Sen- 
tences so  much  alike  that  she  could  not  remember  them 
apart,  or  which  way  they  came.  All  at  once  the  simple, 
beautiful  meaning  was  given  to  her. 

What  Grod  had  to  say. 

And  it  took  a  world,  —  millions  of  worlds,  —  to  say  it 
with. 

"  And  the  Bible,  too  ?  "  she  said,  simply  following  out 
her  own  mental  perception,  without  giving  the  link.  It 
was  not  needed.  They  were  upon  one  track. 

"  Yes  ;  all  things  ;  and  all  souls.  The  world-word 
comes  through  things  ;  the  Bible  came  through  souls. 
And  it  is  all  the  more  alive,  and  full,  and  deep,  and  chang- 
ing ;  like  a  river." 

"  Living  fountains  of  waters  !  that  was  part  of  the  mor- 


CRUMBS.  141 

sel  to-day,"  Desire  repeated  impulsively,  and  then  shyly 
explained. 

"  And  the  new  word  ?  " 

Desire  shrunk  into  silence  for  a  moment ;  she  was  not 
used  to,  or  fond  of  Bible  quoting,  or  even  Bible  talk ;  yet 
she  was  hungering  all  the  time  for  Bible  truth. 

Mr.  Kincaid  waited. 

So  she  repeated  it  presently  ;  for  Desire  never  made  a 
fuss  ;  she  was  too  really  sensitive  for  that. 

"  '  The    Tenderness  in  the  midst  of  the   Almightiness 

O 

shall  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  them  to  living  fountains  of 
water.' " 

Mr.  Kincaid  recognized  the  "new  word,"  and  his  face 
lit  up. 

"  4  The  Lamb  in  the  midst  of  the  Throne,'  "  he  said. 
"  Out  of  the  Heart  of  God,  the  Christ.  Who  was  there 
before  ;  the  intent  by  which  all  things  were  made.  The 
same  yesterday,  and  to-day,  and  forever ;  who  ever  liveth 
to  make  intercession  for  us.  Christ  had  to  be.  The  Word, 
full  of  grace,  must  be  made  flesh.  Why  need  people  dis- 
pute about  Eternity  and  Divinity,  if  they  can  only  see 
that  ?  —  Was  that  Mrs.  Froke's  reading  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  that  was  Rachel's  sermon." 

44  It  is  an  illumination." 

They  walked  all  up  Orchard  Street  without  another 
word. 

Then  Kenneth  Kincaid  said,  — 

"  Miss  Desire,  why  won't  you  come  and  teach  in  the 
Mission  School  ?  " 

44 1  teach  ?     Why,  I've  got  everything  to  learn  !  " 

44  But  as  fast  as  you  do  learn  ;  the  morsels,  you  know. 
That  is  the  way  they  are  given  out.  That  is  the  wonder 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  There  is  no  need  to  go  away 


142  REAL  FOLKS. 

and  buy  three  hundred  pennyworth  before  we  begin,  that 
every  one  may  take  a  little ;  the  bread  given  as  the  Mas- 
ter breaks  it  feeds  them  till  they  are  filled ;  and  there  are 
baskets  full  of  fragments  to  gather  up." 

Kenneth  Kinc^id's  heart  was  in  his  Sunday  work,  as 
his  sister  had  said.  The  more  gladly  now,  that  the  out- 
ward daily  bread  was  being  given. 

Mr.  Geoffrey,  —  one  of  those  busy  men,  so  busy  that 
they  do  promptly  that  which  their  hands  find  to  do,  —  had 
put  Kenneth  in  the  way  of  work.  It  only  needed  a  word 
from  him,  and  the  surveying  and  laying  out  of  some  new 
streets  and  avenues  down  there  where  Boston  is  growing 
so  big  and  grand  and  strange,  were  put  into  his  charge. 
Kenneth  was  busy  now,  cheerily  busy,  from  Monday 
morning  to  Saturday  night ;  and  restfully  busy  on  the 
Sunday,  straightening  the  paths  and  laying  out  the  ways 
for  souls  to  walk  in.  He  felt  the  harmony  and  the  illus- 
tration between  his  week  and  his  Sunday,  and  the  one 
strengthening  the  other,  os  all  true  outward  work  does 
harmonize  with  and  show  forth,  and  help  the  spiritual  do- 
ing. It  could  not  have  been  so  with  that  gold  work,  or 
any  little  feverish  hitching  on  to  other  men's  business; 
producing  nothing,  advancing  nothing,  only  standing  be- 
tween to  snatch  what  might  fall,  or  to  keep  a  premium  for 
passing  from  hand  to  hand. 

Our  great  cities  are  so  full,  —  our  whole  country  is  so 
overrun, — with  these  officious  middle-men  whom  the 
world  does  not  truly  want ;  chiffonniers  of  trade,  who  only 
pick  up  a  living  out  of  the  great  press  and  waste  and 
overflow  ;  and  our  boys  are  so  eager  to  slip  in  to  some 
such  easy,  ready-made  opportunity,  —  to  get  some  crossing 
to  sweep. 

What  will  come  of  it  all,  as  the  pretenses  multiply? 


CRUMBS,  143 

Will  there  be  always  pennies  for  every  little  broom  ?  Will 
two,  and  three,  and  six  sweeps  be  tolerated  between  side 
and  side  ?  By  and  by,  I  think,  they  will  have  to  turn  to 
and  lay  pavements.  Hard,  honest  work,  and  the  day's 
pay  for  it ;  that  is  what  we  have  got  to  go  back  to  ;  that 
and  the  day's  snug,  patient  living,  which  the  pay  achieves. 

Then,  as  I  say,  the  week  shall  illustrate  the  Sunday, 
and  the  Sunday  shall  glorify  the  week ;  and  what  men  do 
and  build  shall  stand  true  types,  again,  for  the  inner 
growth  and  the  invisible  building  ;  so  that  if  this  outer 
tabernacle  were  dissolved,  there  should  be  seen  glorious 
behind  it,  the  house  not  made  with  hands, — eternal. 

As  Desire  Ledwith  met  this  young  Kenneth  Kincaid 
from  day  to  day,  seeing  him  so  often  at  her  Aunt  Rip- 
winkley's,  where  he  and  Dorris  went  in  and  out  now, 
almost  like  a  son  and  daughter,  —  as  she  walked  beside 
him  this  morning,  hearing  him  say  these  things,  at  which 
the  heart-longing  in  her  burned  anew  toward  the  real  and 
satisfying,  —  what  wonder  was  it  that  her  restlessness 
grasped  at  that  in  his  life  which  was  strong  and  full  of  rest ; 
that  she  felt  glad  and  proud  to  have  him  tell  his  thought  to 
her  ;  that  without  any  silliness,  —  despising  all  silliness,  — 
she  should  yet  be  conscious,  as  girls  of  seventeen  are  con- 
scious, of  something  that  made  her  day  sufficient  when  she 
had  so  met  him, — of  a  temptation  to  turn  into  those 
streets  in  her  walks  that  led  his  way  ?  Or  that  she  often, 
with  her  blunt  truth,  toward  herself  as  well  as  others,  and 
her  quick  contempt  of  sham  and  subterfuge,  should  snub 
herself  mentally,  and  turn  herself  round  as  by  a  grasp  of 
her  own  shoulders,  and  make  herself  walk  off  stoutly  in 
a  far  and  opposite  direction,  when,  without  due  need  and 
excuse,  she  caught  herself  out  in  these  things  ? 

What  wonder  that  this  stood  in  her  way,  for  very  pleas- 


144  REAL   POLKS. 

antness,  when  Kenneth  asked  her  to  come  and  teach  in  the 
school  ?     That  she  was  ashamed  to  let  herself  do  a  thing 

—  even  a  good  thing,  that  her  life  needed,  —  when  there 
was  this  conscious  charm  in  the  asking ;  this  secret  thought 

—  that  she  should  walk  up  home  with  him  every  Sunday  ! 
She  remembered  Agatha  and  Florence,  and  she  imag- 

.  O  O 

ined,  perhaps,  more  than  they  would  really  have  thought 
of  it  at  home  ;  and  so  as  they  turned  into  Shubarton  Place, 

—  for  he  had  kept  on  all  the  way  along  Bridgeley  and  up 
Dorset  Street  with  her,  —  she  checked  her  steps  suddenly 
as  they  came  near  the  door,  and  said  brusquely,  — 

"  No,  Mr.  Kincaid ;  I  can't  come  to  the  Mission.  I 
might  learn  A,  and  teach  them  that ;  but  how  do  I  know 
I  shall  ever  learn  B,  myself?  " 

He  had  left  his  question,  as  their  talk  went  on,  meaning 
to  ask  it  again  before  they  separated.  He  thought  it  was 
prevailing  with  her,  and  that  the  help  that  comes  of  help- 
ing others  would  reach  her  need ;  it  was  for  her  sake  he 
asked  it ;  he  was  disappointed  at  the  sudden,  almost  trivial 
turn  she  gave  it. 

"You  have  taken  up  another  analogy,  Miss  Desire," 
he  said.  "  We  were  talking  about  crumbs  and  feeding. 
The  five  loaves  and  the  five  thousand.  '  Why  reason  ye 
because  ye  have  no  bread  ?  How  is  it  that  ye  do  not  un- 
derstand?'" 

Kenneth  quoted  these  words  naturally,  pleasantly ;  as  he 
might  quote  anything  that  had  been  spoken  to  them  both 
out  of  a  love  and  authority  they  both  recognized,  a  little 
while  ago. 

But  Desire  was  suddenly  sharp  and  fractious.  If  it  had 
not  touched  some  deep,  live  place  in  her,  she  would  not 
have  minded  so  much.  It  was  partly,  too,  the  coming 
toward  home.  She  had  got  away  out  of  the  pure,  clear 


CRUMBS.  145 

spaces  where  such  things  seemed  to  be  fit  and  unstrained, 
into  the  edge  of  her  earth  atmosphere  again,  where,  falling, 
they  took  fire.  Presently  she  would  be  in  that  ridiculous 
pink  room,  and  Glossy  Megilp  would  be  chattering  about 
"  those  lovely  purple  poppies  with  the  black  grass,"  that  she 
had  been  lamenting  all  the  morning  she  had  not  bought 
for  her  chip  hat,  instead  of  the  pomegranate  flowers.  And 
Agatha  would  be  on  the  bed,  in  her  cashmere  sack,  read- 
ing Miss  Braddon. 

"  It  would  sound  nice  to  tell  them  she  was  going  down 
to  the  Mission  School  to  give  out  crumbs !  " 

Besides,  I  suppose  that  persons  of  a  certain  tempera- 
ment never  utter  a  more  ungracious  "  No,"  than  when 
they  are  longing  all  the  time  to  say  "  Yes." 

So  she  turned  round  on  the  lower  step  to  Kenneth,  when 
he  had  asked  that  grave,  sweet  question  of  the  Lord's,  and 
said  perversely,  — 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  believe  in  any  brokering  kind 
of  business.  It's  all  there, — for  everybody.  Why  should 
I  set  up  to  fetch  and  carry  ?  " 

She  did  not  look  in  his  face  as  she  said  it ;  she  was  not 
audacious  enough  to  do  that ;  she  poked  with  the  stick  of 
her  sunshade  between  the  uneven  bricks  of  the  sidewalk, 
keeping  her  eyes  down,  as  if  she  watched  for  some  truth 
she  expected  to  pry  up.  But  she  only  wedged  the  stick  in 
so  that  she  could  not  get  it  out ;  and  Kenneth  Kincaid 
making  her  absolutely  no  answer  at  all,  she  had  to  stand 
there,  growing  red  and  ashamed,  held  fast  by  her  own  silly 
trap. 

"  Take  care  ;  you  will  break  it,"  said  Kenneth,  quietly, 
as  she  gave  it  a  twist  and  a  wrench.     And  he  put  out  his 
hand,  and  took  it  from  hers,  and  drew  gently  upward  in 
the  line  in  which  she  had  thrust  it  in. 
10 


146  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  You  were  bearing  off  at  an  angle.  It  wanted  a 
straight  pull." 

"  I  never  pull  straight  at  anything.  I  always  get  into  a 
crook,  somehow.  You  didn't  answer  me,  Mr.  Kincaid.  I 
didn't  mean  to  be  rude — or  wicked.  I  didn't  mean  —  " 

"  What  you  said.  I  know  that ;  and  it's  no  use  to  an- 
swer what  people  don't  mean.  That  makes  the  crookedest 
crook  of  all." 

"  But  I  think  I  did  mean  it  partly  ;  only  not  contrari- 
mindedly.  I  do  mean  that  I  have  no  business  —  yet 
awhile.  It  would  only  be  —  Migging  at  gospel  !  " 

And  with  this  remarkable  application  of  her  favorite 
illustrative  expression,  she  made  a  friendly  but  abrupt 
motion  of  leave-taking,  and  went  into  the  house. 

Up  into  her  own  room,  in  the  third  story,  where  the 
old  furniture  was,  and  no  "  fadging,"  —  and  sat  down, 
bonnet,  gloves,  sunshade,  and  all,  in  her  little  cane  rocking- 
chair  by  the  window. 

Helena  was  down  in  the  pink  room,  listening  with 
charmed  ears  to  the  grown  up  young-ladyisms  of  her 
elder  sisters  and  Glossy  Megilp. 

Desire  sat  still  until  the  dinner-bell  rang,  forgetful  of 
her  dress,  forgetful  of  all  but  one  thought  that  she  spoke 
out  as  she  rose  at  last  at  the  summons  to  take  off  her 
things  in  a  hurry,  — 

"  I  wonder,  —  I  wonder  — if  I  shall  ever  live  anything 
all  straight  out !  " 


PIECES   OF   WORLDS.  147 

XIII. 

PIECES    OF   WORLDS. 

1%/TR.  DICKENS  never  put  a  truer  thought  into  any 
-*-"-•-  book,  than  he  put  at  the  beginning  of  "  Little 
Don-it." 

That,  from  over  land  and  sea,  from  hundreds,  thousands 
of  miles  away,  are  coming  the  people  with  whom  we  are 
to  have  to  do  in  our  lives ;  and  that,  "  what  is  set  to  us  to 
do  to  them,  and  what  is  set  for  them  to  do  to  us,  will  all 
be  done." 

Not  only  from  far  places  in  this  earth,  over  land  and 
sea,  —  but  from  out  the  eternities,  before  and  after,  — 
from  which  souls  are  born,  and  into  which  they  die,  —  all 
the  lines  of  life  are  moving  continually  which  are  to  meet 
and  join,  and  bend,  and  cross  our  own. 

But  it  is  only  with  a  little  piece  of  this  world,  as  far  as 
we  can  see  it  in  this  short  and  simple  story,  that  we  have 
now  to  do. 

Rosamond  Holabird  was  coming  down  to  Boston. 

With  all  her  pretty,  fresh,  delicate,  high-lady  ways, 
with  her  beautiful  looks,  and  her  sweet  readiness  for  true 
things  and  noble  living,  she  was  coming,  for  a  few  days 
only,  — » the  cooperative  housekeeping  was  going  on  at 
Westover,  and  she  could  not  be  spared  long,  —  right  in 
among  them  here  in  Aspen  Street,  and  Shubarton  Place, 
and  Orchard  Street,  and  Harrisburg  Square,  where  Mrs. 
Scherman  lived  whom  she  was  going  to  stay  with.  But  a 
few  days  may  be  a  great  deal. 

Rosamond  Holabird  was  coming  for  far  more  than  she 


148  REAL    FOLKS. 

knew.  Among  other  things  she  was  coming  to  get  a 
lesson ;  a  lesson  right  on  in  a  course  she  was  just  now 
learning ;  a  lesson  of  next  things,  and  best  things,  and 
real  folks. 

You  see  how  it  happened,  —  where  the  links  were  ;  Miss 
Craydocke,  and  Sin  Scherman,  and  Leslie  Goldthwaite, 
were  dear  friends,  made  to  each  other  one  summer  among 
the  mountains.  Leslie  had  had  Sin  and  Miss  Craydocke 
up  at  Z ,  and  Rosamond  and  Leslie  were  friends,  also. 

Mrs.  Frank  Scherman  had  a  pretty  house  in  Harrisburg 
Square.  She  had  not  much  time  for  paying  fashionable 
calls,  or  party-going,  or  party-giving.  As  to  the  last,  she 
did  not  think  Frank  had  money  enough  yet  to  "  circum- 
fuse,"  she  said,  in  that  way. 

But  she  had  six  lovely  little  harlequin  cups  on  a  side- 
shelf  in  her  china  closet,  and  six  different-patterned  break- 
fast plates,  with  colored  borders  to  match  the  cups ;  rose, 
and  brown,  and  gray,  and  vermilion,  and  green,  and  blue. 
These  were  all  the  real  china  she  had,  and  were  for  Frank 
and  herself  and  the  friends  whom  she  made  welcome, — 
and  who  might  come  four  at  once,  —  for  day  and  night. 
She  delighted  in  "little  stays ; "  in  girls  who  would  go  into 
the  nursery  with  her,  and  see  Sinsie  in  her  bath  ;  or  into 
the  kitchen,  and  help  her  mix  up  "  little  delectabilities  to 
surprise  Frank  with ; "  only  the  trouble  had  got  to  be 
now,  that  the  surprise  occurred  when  the  delectabilities 
did  not.  Frank  had  got  demoralized,  and  expected  them. 
She  rejoiced  to  have  Miss  Craydocke  drop  in  of  a  morn- 
ing and  come  right  up  stairs,  with  her  little  petticoats  and 
things  to  work  on  ;  and  she  and  Frank  returned  these  visits 
in  a  social,  cosy  way,  after  Sinsie  was  in  her  crib  for  the 
night.  Frank's  boots  never  went  on  with  a  struggle  for 
a  walk  down  to  Orchard  Street ;  but  they  were  terribly 
impossible  for  Continuation  Avenue. 


PIECES    OF   WORLDS.  149 

So  it  had  come  about  long  ago,  though  I  have  not  had 
a  corner  to  mention  it  in,  that  they  "  knew  the  Muffin 
Man,"  in  an  Aspen  Street  sense  ;  and  were  no  strangers 
to  the  charm  of  Mrs.  Ripwinkley's  "  evenings."  There 
was  always  an  "  evening  "  in  the  "  Mile  Hill  House,"  as 
the  little  family  and  friendly  coterie  had  come  to  call  it. 

Rosamond  and  Leslie  had  been   down  together  for  a 

o 

week  once,  at  the  Schermans  ;  and  this  time  Rosamond 
was  coming  alone.  She  had  business  in  Boston  for  a  day 
or  two,  and  had  written  to  ask  Asenath  "  if  she  might." 
There  were  things  to  buy  for  Barbara,  who  was  going  to 
be  married  in  a  "  navy  hurry,"  besides  an  especial  mat- 
ter that  had  determined  her  just  at  this  time  to  come. 

And  Asenath  answered,  "  that  the  scarlet  and  gray,  and 
green  and  blue  were  pining  and  fading  on  the  shelf;  and 
four  days  would  be  the  very  least  to  give  them  all  a  turn 
and  treat  them  fairly  ;  for  such  things  had  their  delicate 
susceptibilities,  as  Hans  Andersen  had  taught  us  to  know, 
and  might  starve  and  suffer,  —  why  not  ?  being  made  of 
protoplasm,  same  as  anybody." 

Rosamond's  especial  errand  to  the  city  was  one  that 
just  a  little  set  her  up,  innocently,  in  her  mind.  She  had 
not  wholly  got  the  better,  —  when  it  interfered  with  no 
good-will  or  generous  dealing,  —  of  a  certain  little  in- 
stinctive reverence  for  imposing  outsides  and  grand  ways 
of  daily  doing ;  and  she  was  somewhat  complacent  at  the 
idea  of  having  to  go,  —  with  kindly  and  needful  informa- 
tion,—  to  Madam  Mucklegrand,  in  Spreadsplendid  Park. 

Madam  Mucklegrand  was  a  well  -  born  Boston  lady, 
who  had  gone  to  Europe  in  her  early  youth,  and  married 
a  Scottish  gentleman  with  a  Sir  before  his  name.  Conse- 
quentlv,  she  was  quite  entitled  to  be  called  "  my  lady ;  " 
and  some  people  who  liked  the  opportunity  of  touching 


150  REAL    FOLKS. 

their  republican  tongues  to  the  salt  of  European  digni- 
taries, addressed  her  so ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  she  as- 
sumed and  received  simply  the  style  of  "  Madam."  A 
queen  may  be  called  "  Madam,"  you  know.  It  covers 
an  indefinite  greatness.  But  when  she  spoke  of  her 
late,  —  very  long  ago,  —  husband,  she  always  named  him 
as  "  Sir  Archibald." 

Madam  Mucklegrand's  daughter  wanted  a  wet-nurse 
for  her  little  baby. 

Up  in  Z ,  there  was  a  poor  woman  whose  husband, 

a  young  brakeman  on  the  railroad,  had  been  suddenly 
killed  three  months  ago,  before  her  child  was  born.  There 
was  a  sister  here  in  Boston,  who  could  take  care  of  it  for 
her  if  she  could  go  to  be  foster-mother  to  some  rich  little 
baby,  who  was  yet  so  poor  as  this  —  to  need  one.  So  Ros- 
amond Holabird,  who  was  especially  interested  for  Mrs. 
Jopson,  had  written  to  Asenath,  and  had  an  advertisement 
put  in  the  "  Transcript,"  referring  to  Mrs.  Scherman  for 
information.  And  the  Mucklegrand  carriage  had  rolled 
up,  the  next  day,  to  the  house  in  Harrisburg  Square. 

They  wanted  to  see  the  woman,  of  course,  and  to  hear 
all  about  her,  —  more  than  Mrs.  Scherman  was  quite  able 

to  tell ;  therefore  when  she  sent  a  little  note  up  to  Z , 

by  the  evening  mail,  Rosamond  replied  with  her  "  Might 
she  come  ?  " 

She  brought  Jane  Jopson  and  the  baby  down  with  her, 
left  them  over  night  at  Mrs.  Ginnever's,  in  Sheafe  Street, 
and  was  to  go  for  them  next  morning  and  take  them  up 
to  Spreadsplendid  Park.  She  had  sent  a  graceful,  polite 
little  note  to  Madam  Mucklegrand,  dated  "  Westover, 

Z -,"  and  signed,  "  Rosamond  Holabird,"  offering  to  do 

this,  that  there  might  not  be  the  danger  of  Jane's  losing 
the  chance  in  the  meanwhile. 


PIECES   OP   WORLDS.  151 

It  was  certainly  to  accomplish  the  good  deed  that  Rosa- 
mond cared  the  most ;  but  it  was  also  certainly  something 
to  accomplish  it  in  that  very  high  quarter.  It  lent  a 
piquancy  to  the  occasion. 

She  came  down  to  breakfast  very  nicely  and  discrim- 
inatingly dressed,  with  the  elegant  quietness  of  a  lady  who. 
knew  what  was  simply  appropriate  to  such  an  errand  and 
the  early  hour,  but  who  meant  to  be  recognized  as  the 
lady  in  every  unmistakable  touch  ;  and  there  was  a  car- 
riage ordered  for  her  at  half  past  nine. 

Sin  Scherman  was  a  cute  little  matron  ;  she  discerned 
the  dash  of  subdued  importance  in  Rosamond's  air;  and 
she  thought  it  very  likely,  in  the  Boston  nature  of  things, 
that  it  would  get  wholesomely  and  civilly  toned  down. 

Just  at  this  moment,  Rosamond,  putting  on  her  little 
straw  bonnet  with  real  lace  upon  it,  and  her  simple  little 
narrow-bordered  green  shawl,  that  was  yet,  as  far  as  it 
went,  veritable  cashmere,  —  had  a  consciousness,  in  a  still,, 
modest  way,  not  only  of  her  own  personal  dignity  as  Ros- 
amond Holabird,  who  was  the  same  going  to  see  Madam* 
Mucklegrand,  or  walking  over  to  Madam  Pennington's, 
and  as  much  in  her  place  with  one  as  the  other  ;  but  of 
the  dignity  of  Westover  itself,  and  Westover  ladyhood, 
represented  by  her  among  the  palaces  of  Boston- Appen- 
dix to^ay. 

She  was  only  twenty,  this  fair  and  pleasant  Rosamond 
of  ours,  and  country  simple,  with  all  her  native  tact  and 
grace  ;  and  she  forgot,  or  did  not  know  how  full  of  im- 
pressions a  life  like  Madam  Mucklegrand's  might  be,  and 
how  very  trifling  and  fleeting  must  be  any  that  she  might 
chance  to  make. 

She  drove  away  down  to  the  North  End,  and  took  Jane 
Jopson  and  her  baby  in,  —  very  clean  and  shiny,  both  of 


152  REAL    FOLKS. 

them,  —  and  Jane  particularly  nice  in  the  little  black 
crape  bonnet  that  Rosamond  herself  had  made,  and  the 
plain  black  shawl  that  Mrs.  Holabird  had  given  her. 

She  stood  at  the  head  of  the  high,  broad  steps,  with  her 
mind  very  much  made  up  in  regard  to  her  complete  and 
well-bred  self-possession,  and  the  manner  of  her  quietly 
assured  self-introduction.  She  had  her  card  all  ready  that 
should  explain  for  her;  and  to  the  servant's  reply  that 
Madam  Mucklegrand  was  in,  she  responded  by  moving 
forward  with  only  enough  of  voluntary  hesitation  to  allow 
him  to  indicate  to  her  the  reception  room,  at  the  door  of 
which  she  gave  him  the  little  pasteboard,  with,  — 

"  Take  that  to  her,  if  you  please,"  and  so  sat  do*vn, 
very  much  as  if  she  had  been  in  such  places  frequently 
before,  which  she  never  had.  One  may  be  quite  used  to 
the  fine,  free  essence  of  gentle  living,  and  never  in  all 
one's  life  have  anything  to  do  with  such  solid,  concrete 
expression  of  it  as  Rosamond  saw  here. 

Very  high,  to  begin  with,  the  ceiled  and  paneled  room 
was  ;  reaching  up  into  space  as  if  it  had  really  been  of  no 
consequence  to  the  builders  where  they  should  put  the 
cover  on ;  and  with  no  remotest  suggestion  of  any  reserve 
for  further  superstructure  upon  the  same  foundation. 

Very  dark,  and  polished,  and  deeply  carved,  and  heavily 
ornamented  were  its  wainscotings,  and  frames,  anf!  cor- 
nices ;  out  of  the  new  look  of  the  streets,  which  it  will 
take  them  yet  a  great  while  to  outgrow,  she  had  stepped 
at  once  into  a  grand,  and  mellow,  and  ancient 'stateliness. 

There  were  dim  old  portraits  on  the  walls,  and  paintings 
that  hinted  at  old  mastership  filled  whole  panels ;  and  the 
tall,  high-backed,  wonderfully  wrought  oaken  chairs  had 
heraldic  devices  in  relief  upon  their  bars  and  corners  ;  and 
there  was  a  great,  round  mosaic  table,  in  soft,  rich,  dark 


PIECES   OP   WORLDS.  153 

colors,  of  most  precious  stones ;  these,  in  turn,  hidden  with 
piles  of  rare  engravings. 

The  floor  was  of  dark  woods,  inlaid ;  and  sumptuous 
rugs  were  put  about  upon  it  for  the  feet,  each  one  of  which 
Mas  wide  enough  to  call  a  carpet. 

And  nothing  of  it  all  was  new ;  there  was  nothing  in 
the  room  but  some  plants  in  a  jardiniere  by  the  window, 
that  seemed  to  have  a  bit  of  yesterday's  growth  upon  it. 

A  great,  calm,  marble  face  of  Jove  looked  down  from 
high  up,  out  of  the  shadows. 

Underneath  sat  Rosamond  Holabird,  holding  on  to  her 

'  O 

identity  and  her  self-confidence. 

Madam  Mucklegrand  came  in  plainly  enough  dressed,  — 
in  black ;  you  would  not  notice  what  she  had  on  ;  but  you 
would  notice  instantly  the  consummate  usedness  to  the 
world  and  the  hardening  into  the  mould  thereof  that  was 
set  and  furrowed  upon  eye  and  lip  and  brow. 

She  sailed  down  upon  Rosamond  like  a  frigate  upon  a 
graceful  little  pinnace  ;  and  brought  to  within  a  pace  or 
two  of  her,  continuing  to  stand  an  instant,  as  Rosamond 
rose,  just  long  enough  for  the  shadow  of  a  suggestion  that 
it  might  not  be  altogether  material  that  she  should  be 
seated  again  at  all. 

But  Rosamond  made  a  movement  backward  to  her 
chair,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  its  arm,  and  then  Madam 
Mucklegrand  decided  to  sit  down. 

o 

"  You  called  about  the  nurse,  I  conclude,  Miss —  Hola- 
bird ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  I  thought  you  had  some  questions  you 
wished  to  ask,  and  that  I  had  better  come  myself.  I  have 
her  with  me,  in  the  carriage." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Madam  Mucklegrand,  politely. 

But  it  was  rather  a  de  haut  en  bas  politeness  ;  she  ex- 
ercised it  also  toward  her  footman. 


154  REAL    POLKS. 

Then  followed  inquiries  about  age,  and  health,  and 
character.  Rosamond  told  all  she  knew,  clearly  and  suffi- 
ciently, with  some  little  sympathetic  touches  that  she  could 
not  help,  in  giving  her  story. 

Madam  Mucklegrand  met  her  nowhere,  however,  on 
any  common  ground  ;  she  passed  over  all  personal  inter- 
est ;  instead  of  two  women  befriending  a  third  in  her  need, 
who  in  turn  was  to  give  life  to  a  little  child  waiting  help- 
lessly for  some  such  ministry,  it  might  have  been  the  leas- 
ing of  a  house,  or  the  dealing  about  some  merchandise, 
that  was  between  them. 

Rosamond  proposed,  at  last,  to  send  Jane  Jopson  in. 

Jane  and  her  baby  were  had  in,  and  had  up-stairs ;  the 
physician  and  attending  nurse  pronounced  upon  her ;  she 
was  brought  down  again,  to  go  home  and  dispose  of  her 
child,  and  return.  Rosamond,  meanwhile,  had  been  sit- 
ting under  the  marble  Jove. 

There  was  nothing  really  rude  in  it ;  she  was  there  on 
business ;  what  more  could  she  expect  ?  But  then  she 
knew  all  the  time,  that  she  too  was  a  lady,  and  was  taking 
trouble  to  do  a  kind  thing.  It  was  not  so  that  Madam 
Mucklegrand  would  have  been  treated  at  Westover. 

Rosamond  was  feeling  pretty  proud  by  the  time  Madam 
Mucklegrand  came  down  stairs. 

"  We  have  engaged  the  young  woman ;  the  doctor 
quite  approves  ;  she  will  return  without  delay,  I  hope  ?  " 

As  if  Rosamond  were  somehow  responsible  all  through. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  will ;  good  morning,  madam." 

"  Good  morning.  I  am,  really,  very  much  obliged. 
You  have  been  of  great  service." 

Rosamond  turned  quietly  round  upon  the  threshold. 

"  That  was  what  I  was  very  anxious  to  be,"  she  saidr 
in  her  perfectly  sweet  and  musical  voice,  —  "  to  the  poor 
woman." 


ROSAMOND  AT  MADAM  MUCKLEGIUND'S.     See  p.  154. 


PIECES   OP   WORLDS.  155 

Italics  would  indicate  too  coarsely  the  impalpable  em- 
phasis she  put  upon  the  last  two  words.  But  Mrs.  Muckle- 
grand  caught  it. 

Rosamond  went  away  quite  as  sure  of  her  own  self-re- 
spect as  ever,  but  very  considerably  cured  of  Spreadsplen- 
didisrn. 

This  was  but  one  phase  of  it,  she  knew  ;  there  are 
real  folks,  also,  in  Spreadsplendid  Park ;  they  are  a  good 
deal  covered  up,  there,  to  be  sure  ;  but  they  can't  help 
that.  It  is  what  always  happens  to  somebody  when  Pyra- 
mids are  built.  Madam  Mucklegrand  herself  was,  per- 
haps, only  a  good  deal  covered  up. 

How  lovely  it  was  to  go  down  into  Orchard  Street  after 
that,  and  take  tea  with  Miss  Craydocke  !  How  human 
and  true  it  seemed,  —  the  friendliness  that  shone  and 
breathed  there,  among  them  all.  How  kingdom-of-heaven- 
like  the  air  was,  and  into  what  pleasantness  of  speech  it 
was  born  ! 

And  then  Hazel  Ripwinkley  came  over,  like  a  little 
spirit  from  another  blessed  society,  to  tell  that  "  the  pic- 
ture-book things  were  all  ready,  and  that  it  would  take 
everybody  to  help." 

That  was  Rosamond's  first  glimpse  of  Witch  Hazel, 
who  found  her  out  instantly,  —  the  real,  Holabirdy  part  of 
her,  —  and  set  her  down  at  once  among  her  "  folks." 

It  was  bright  and  cheery  in  Mrs.  Ripwinkley's  parlor ; 
you  could  hardly  tell  whence  the  cheeriness  radiated, 
either. 

The  bright  German  lamp  was  cheery,  in  the  middle  of 
the  round  table  ;  the  table  was  cheery,  covered  with  glossy 
linen  cut  into  lai'ge,  square  book-sheets  laid  in  piles,  and 
with  gay  pictures  of  all  kinds,  brightly  colored  ;  and  the 
scissors,  —  or  scissorses,  —  there  were  ever  so  many  shin- 


156  REAL    FOLKS. 

ing  pairs  of  them,  —  and  the  little  mucilage  bottles,  and 
the  very  scrap-baskets,  —  all  looked  cozy  and  comfortable, 
and  as  if  people  were  going  to  have  a  real  good  time  among 
them,  somehow. 

And  the  somehow  was  in  making  great  beautiful,  ever- 
lasting picture-books  for  the  little  orphans  in  Miss  Cray- 
docke's  Home,  — the  Home,  that  is,  out  of  several  blessed 
and  similar  ones  that  she  was  especially  interested  in,  and 
where  Hazel  and  Diana  had  been  with  her  until  they  knew 
all  the  little  waifs  by  sight  and  name  and  heart,  and  had 
their  especial  chosen  property  among  them,  as  they  used 
to  have  among  the  chickens  and  the  little  yellow  ducks  at 
Homesworth  Farm. 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  cheery ;  it  might  be  a  question 
whether  all  the  light  did  not  come  from  her  first,  in  some 
way,  and  perhaps  it  did;  but  then  Hazel  was  luminous, 
and  she  fluttered  about  with  quick,  happy  motions,  till  like 
a  little  glancing  taper  she  had  shone  upon  and  lit  up  every- 
body and  everything;  and  Dorris  was  sunny  with  clear 
content,  and  Kenneth  was  blithe,  and  Desire  was  scintil- 
lant,  as  she  always  was  either  with  snaps  or  smiles  ;  and 
here  came  in  beaming  Miss  Craydocke,  and  gay  Asenath 
and  her  handsome  husband  ;  and  our  Rosa  Mundi ;  there, 
—  how  can  you  tell  ?  It  was  all  round  ;  and  it  was  more 
every  minute. 

There  were  cutters  and  pasters  and  stitchers  and  bind- 
ers ;  and  every  part  was  beautiful  work,  and  nobody  could 
tell  which  was  pleasantest.  Cutting  out  was  nice,  of 
course  ;  who  doesn't  like  cutting  out  pictures  ?  Some 
were  done  beforehand,  but  there  were  as  many  left  as 
there  would  be  time  for.  And  pasting,  on  the  fine,  smooth 
linen,  making  it  glow  out  with  charming  groups  and  tints 
of  flowers  and  birds  and  children  in  gay  clothes,  —  that 


PIECES   OP   WORLDS.  157 

was  delightful ;  and  the  stitchers  had  the  pleasure  of  com- 
bining and  arranging  it  all ;  and  the  binders,  —  Mrs.  Rip- 
winkley  and  Miss  Craydocke,  —  finished  all  off  with  the 
pretty  ribbons  and  the  gray  covers,  and  theirs  being  the 
completing  touch,  thought  they  had  the  best  of  it. 

"  But  I  don't  think  finishing  is  best,  mother,"  said 
Hazel,  who  was  diligently  snipping  in  and  out  around  rose 
leaves  or  baby  faces,  as  it  happened.  "  I  think  beginning 
is  always  beautiful.  I  never  want  to  end  off,  —  anything 
nice,  I  mean." 

"  Well,  we  don't  end  off  this,"  said  Diana.  "  There's 
the  giving,  next." 

"  And  then  their  little  laughs  and  Go's,"  said  Hazel. 

"  And  their  delight  day  after  day ;  and  the  comfort  of 
them  in  their  little  sicknesses,"  said  Miss  Craydocke. 

"  And  the  stories  that  have  got  to  be  told  about  every 
picttire,"  said  Dorris. 

"  No  ;  nothing  really  nice  does  end  ;  it  goes  on  and  on," 
said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley. 

"  Of  course  !  "  said  Hazel,  triumphantly,  turning  on 
the  Drummond  light  of  her  child-faith.  "  We're  forever 
and  ever  people,  you  know  !  " 

"  Please  paste  some  more  flowers,.  Mr.  Kincaid,"  said 
Rosamond,  who  sat  next  him,  stitching.  "  I  want  to  make 
an  all-flower  book  of  this.  No,  —  not  roses  ;  I've  a  whole 
page  already ;  this  great  white  lily,  I  think.  That's  beauti- 
ful!" 

"  Wouldn't  it  do  to  put  in  this  laurel  bush  next,  with 
the  bird's  nest  in  it  ?  " 

"  O,  those  lovely  pink  and  white  laurels  !  Yes.  Where 
did  you  get  such  pictures,  Miss  Hazel  ?  " 

"  O,  everybody  gave  them  to  us,  all  summer,  ever  since 
we  began.  Mrs.  Geoffrey  gave  those  flowers  ;  and  mother 


158  REAL    FOLKS. 

painted  some.  She  did  that  laurel.  But  don't  call  me  Miss 
Hazel,  please  ;  it  seems  to  send  me  off  into  a  corner." 

Rosamond  answered  by  a  little  irresistible  caress  ;  lean- 
ing her  head  down  to  Hazel,  on  her  other  side,  until  her 
cheek  touched  the  child's  bright  curls,  quickly  and  softly. 
There  was  magnetism  between  those  two. 

Ah,  the  magnetism  ran  round  ! 

"For  a  child's  picture-book,  Mrs.  Ripwinkley?"  said 
Mrs.  Scherman,  reaching  over  for  the  laurel  picture. 
"  Aren't  these  almost  too  exquisite  ?  They  would  like  a 
big  scarlet  poppy  just  as  well,  —  perhaps  better.  Or  a 
clump  of  cat-o'-nine-tails,"  she  added,  whimsically. 

"  There  is  a  clump  of  cat-o'-nine-tails,"  said  Mrs.  Rip- 
winklev.  "  I  remember  how  I  used  to  delight  in  them  as 

v  & 

a  child,  —  the  real  ones." 

"  Pictures  are  to  tell  things,"  said  Desire,  in  her  brief 
way. 

"  These  little  city  refugees  must  see  them,  somehow," 
said  Rosamond,  gently.  "  I  understand.  They  will  never 
get  up  on  the  mountains,  maybe,  where  the  laurels  grow, 
or  into  the  shady  swamps  among  the  flags  and  the  cat-o'- 
nine-tails.  You  have  picked  out  pictures  to  give  them, 
Mrs.  Ripwinkley." 

Kenneth  Kincaid's  scissors  stopped  a  moment,  as  he 
looked  at  Rosamond,  pausing  also  over  the  placing  of  her 
leaves. 

Desire  saw  that  from  the  other  side ;  she  saw  how 
beautiful  and  gracious  this  girl  was  —  this  Rosamond 
Holabird  ;  and  there  was  a  strange  little  twinge  in  her 
heart,  as  she  felt,  suddenly,  that  let  there  be  ever  so  much 
that  was  true  and  kindly,  or  even  tender,  in  her,  it  could 
never  come  up  in  her  eyes  or  play  upon  her  lips  like  that ; 
she  could  never  say  it  out  sweetly  and  in  due  place  j 


PIECES   OP   WORLDS.  '    159 

everything  was  a  spasm  with  her ;  and  nobody  would  ever 
look  at  her  just  as  Kenneth  Kincaid  looked  at  Rosamond 
then. 

She  said  to  herself,  with  her  harsh,  unsparing  honesty, 
that  it  must  be  a  "  hitch  inside ; "  a  cramp  or  an  awk- 
wardness born  in  her,  that  set  her  eyes,  peering  and  sharp, 
so  near  together,  and  put  that  knot  into  her  brows  instead 
of  their  widening  placidly,  like  Rosamond's,  and  made  her 
jerky  in  her  speech.  It  was  no  use;  she  couldn't  look 
and  behave,  because  she  couldn't  be;  she  must  just  go 
boggling  and  kinking  on,  and  —  losing  everything,  she 
supposed. 

The  smiles  went  down,  under  a  swift,  bitter  little  cloud, 
and  the  hard  twist  came  into  her  face  with  the  inward 
pinching  she  was  giving  herself;  and  all  at  once  there 
crackled  out  one  of  her  sharp,  strange  questions  ;  for  it 
was  true  that  she  could  not  do  otherwise  ;  everything  was 
sudden  and  crepitant  with  her. 

"  Why  need  all  the  good  be  done  up  in  batches,  I 
wonder?  Why  can't  it  be  spread  round,  a  little  more 
even  ?  There  must  have  been  a  good  deal  left  out  some- 
where, to  make  it  come  in  a  heap,  so,  upon  you,  Miss 
Craydocke  ! " 

Hacel  looked  up. 

"  I  know  what  Desire  means,"  she  said.  "  It  seemed 
just  so  to  me,  one  way.  Why  oughtn't  there  to  be  little 
homes,  done-by-hand  homes,  for  all  these  little  children, 
instead  of —  well  —  machining. them  all  up  together?  " 

And  Hazel  lauo-hed  at  her  own  conceit. 

«  ° 

"  It's  nice  ;  but  then  —  it  isn't  just  the  way.  If  we 
were  all  brought  up  like  that  we  shouldn't  know,  you 
see ! " 

"  You  wouldn't  want  to  be  brought  up  in  a  platoon, 
Hazel  ?  "  said  Kenneth  Kincaid.  "  No  ;  neither  should  I." 


160  '  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  I  think  it  was  better,"  said  Hazel,  "  to  have  my  turn 
of  being  a  little  child,  all  to  myself;  the  little  child,  I 
mean,  with  the  rest  of  the  folks  bigger.  To  make  much 
of  me,  you  know.  I  shouldn't  want  to  have  missed  that. 
I  shouldn't  like  to  be  loved  in  a  platoon." 

"  Nobody  is  meant  to  be,"  said  Miss  Craydocke. 

"  Then  why  —  "  began  Asenath  Scherman,  and  stopped. 

"  Why  what,  dear  ?  " 

"  Revelations,"  replied  Sin,  laconically.  "  There  are 
loads  of  people  there,  all  dressed  alike,  you  know  ;  and  — 
well  —  its  platoony,  I  think,  rather !  And  down  here, 
such  a  world-full ;  and  the  sky  —  full  of  worlds.  There 
doesn't  seem  to  be  much  notion  of  one  at  a  time,  in  the 
general  plan  of  things." 

"Ah,  but  we've  got  the  key  to  all  that,"  said  Miss 
Craydocke.  "  '  The  very  hairs  of  your  head  are  all  num- 
bered/ It  may  be  impossible  with  us,  you  know,  but  not 
with  Him." 

"Miss  Hapsie  !  you  always  did  put  me  down, just  when 
I  thought  I  was  smart,"  said  Sin  Scherman. 

Asenath  loved  to  say  "Miss  Hapsie,"  now  and  then,  to 
her  friend,  ever  since  she  had  found  out  what  she  called 
her  "squee  little  name." 

"  But  the  little  children,  Miss  Craydocke,"  said  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley.  "It  seems  to  me  Desire  has  got  a  right 
thought  about  it." 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  and  Hazel  always  struck  the  same 
note.  The  same  delicate  instinct  moved  them  both. 
Hazel  "  knew  what  Desire  meant ;  "  her  mother  did  not 
let  it  be  lost  sight  of  that  it  was  Desire  who  had  led  the 
way  in  this  thought  of  the  children  ;  so  that  the  abrupt 
beginning  —  the  little  flash  out  of  the  cloud  —  was  quite 
forgotten  presently,  in  the  tone  of  hearty  understanding 


PIECES   OF   WORLDS.  161 

and  genuine  interest  with  which  the  talk  went  on ;  and  it 
was  as  if  all  that  was  generous  and  mindfully  suggestive 
in  it  had  first  and  truly  come  from  her.  They  unfolded 
herself  for  her  —  these  friendly  ones  —  as  she  could  not 
do  ;  out  of  her  bluntness  grew  a  graciousness  that  lay  softly 
over  it ;  the  cloud  itself  melted  away  and  floated  off ;  and 
Desire  began  to  sparkle  again  more  lambently.  For  she 
was  not  one  of  the  kind  to  be  meanly  or  enviously  "  put 
out." 

"  It  seemed  to  me  there  must  be  a  great  many  spare 
little  corners  somewhere,  for  all  these  spare  little  chil- 
dren," she  said  ;  "  and  that,  lumped  up  together  so,  there 
was  something  they  did  not  get." 

"  That  is  precisely  the  thing,"  said  Miss  Craydocke, 
emphatically.  "  I  wonder,  sometimes,"  she  went  on,  ten- 
derly, "  if  whenever  God  makes  a  little  empty  place  in  a 
home,  it  isn't  really  on  purpose  that  it  might  be  filled  with 
one  of  these,  —  if  people  only  thought." 

"  Miss  Craydocke,"  said  Hazel,  "  how  did  you  begin 
your  beehive?  " 

"  I !  "  said  the  good  lady.     "  I  didn't.     It  began  itself." 

"  Well,  then,  how  did  you  let  it  begin  ?  " 

"  Ah !  " 

The  tone  was  admissive,  and  as  if  she  had  said,  "  That 
is  another  thing  !  "  She  could  not  contradict  that  she  had 
let  it  be. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  queer  story,"  she  said,  "  of  what  they 
say  they  used  to  do,  in  old  Roman  Catholic  times  and 
places,  when  they  wanted  to  keep  up  a  beehive  that  was 
in  any  danger  of  dwindling  or  growing  unprofitable.  I 
read  it  somewhere  in  a  book  of  popular  beliefs  and  cus- 
toms about  bees  and  other  interesting  animals.  An  old 
woman  once  went  to  her  friend,  and  asked  her  what  she 
11 


162  REAL   FOLKS. 

did  to  make  her  hive  so  gainful.  And  this  was  what  the 
old  wife  said  ;  it  sounds  rather  strange  to  us,  but  if  there 
is  anything  irreverent  in  it,  it  is  the  word  and  not  the 
meaning ;  '  I  go,'  she  said,  '  to  the  priest,  and  get  a  lit- 
tle round  Godamighty,  and  put  it  in  the  hive,  and  then  all 
goes  well ;  the  bees  thrive,  and  there  is  plenty  of  honey  ; 
they  always  come,  and  stay,  and  work,  when  that  is  there." 

"  A  little  round  —  something  awful !  what  did  she 
mean  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Scherman. 

"  She  meant  a  .consecrated  wafer,  —  the  Sacrament. 
We  don't  need  to  put  the  wafer  in  ;  but  if  we  let  Him  in, 
you  see,  — just  say  to  Him  it  is  his  house,  to  do  with  as 
He  likes,  —  He  takes  the  responsibility,  and  brings  in  all 
the  rest." 

Nobody  saw,  under  the  knitting  of  Desire  Ledwith's 
brows,  and  the  close  setting  of  her  eyes,  the  tenderness 
with  which  they  suddenly  moistened,  and  the  earnestness 
with  which  they  gleamed.  Nobody  knew  how  she 
thought  to  herself  inwardly,  in  the  same  spasmodic  fashion 
that  she  used  for  speech,  — 

"  They  Mig  up  their  parlors  with  upholstery,  and  put 
rose-colored  paper  on  their  walls,  and  call  them  their 
houses ;  and  shut  the  little  round  awfulness  and  goodness 
out !  We've  all  been  doing  it !  And  there's  no  place 
left  for  what  might  come  in." 

Mrs.  Scherman  broke  the  hush  that  followed  what  Miss 
Hapsie  said.  Not  hastily,  or  impertinently  ;  but  when  it 
seemed  as  if  it  might  be  a  little  hard  to  come  down  into 
the  picture-books  and  the  pleasant  easiness  again. 

"  Let's  make  a  Noah's  Ark  picture-book,  —  you  and 
I,"  she  said  to  Desire.  "  Give  us  all  your  animals, — 
there's  a  whole  Natural  History  full  over  there,  all  painted 
with  splendid  daubs  of  colors ;  the  children  did  that,  I 


PIECES   OF   WORLDS.  163 

know,  when  they  were  children.  Come ;  we'll  have 
everything  in,  from  an  elephant  to  a  bumble-bee  !  " 

"  We  did  not  mean  to  use  those,  Mrs.  Scherman,"  said 
Desire.  "  We  did  not  think  they  were  good  enough. 
They  are  so  daubed  up." 

"  They're  perfectly  beautiful.  Exactly  what  the  young 
ones  will  like.  Just  divide  round,  and  help.  We'll  wind 
up  with  the  most  wonderful  book  of  all ;  the  book  they'll 
all  cry  for,  and  that  will  have  to  be  given  always,  directly 
after  the  Castor  Oil." 

It  took  them  more  than  an  hour  to  do  that,  all  working 
hard ;  and  a  wonderful  thing  it  was  truly,  when  it  was 
done.  Mrs.  Scherman  and  Desire  Ledwith  directed  all 
the  putting  together,  and  the  grouping  was  something  as- 
tonishing. 

There  were  men  and  women,  —  the  Knowers,  Sin 
called  them  ;  she  said  that  was  what  she  always  thought 
the  old  gentleman's  name  was,  in  the  days  when  she  first 
heard  of  him,  because  he  knew  so  much  ;  and  in  the  back- 
grounds of  the  same  sheets  were  their  country  cousins, 
the  orangs,  and  the  little  apes.  Then  came  the  elephants, 
and  the  camels,  and  the  whales  ;  "  for  why  should'nt  the 
fishes  be  put  in,  since  they  must  all  have  been  swimming 
round  sociably,  if  they  weren't  inside  ;  and  why  shouldn't 
the  big  people  be  all  kept  together  properly  ?  " 

There  were  happy  families  of  dogs  and  cats  and  lions 
and  snakes  and  little  humming-birds  ;  and  in  the  last  part 
were  all  manner  of  bugs,  down  to  the  little  lady-bugs  in 
blazes  of  red  and  gold,  and  the  gray  fleas  and  mosquitoes 
which  Sin  improvised  with  pen  and  ink,  in  a  swarm  at  the 
end. 

"  And  after  that,  I  don't  believe  they  wanted  any 
more,"  she  said  ;  and  handed  over  the  parts  to  Miss  Cray- 


164  REAL   FOLKS. 

docke  to  be  tied  together.     For  this  volume  had  had  to  be 

O 

made  in  many  folds,  and  Mrs.  Ripwinkley's  blue  ribbon 
would  by  no  means  stretch  over  the  back. 

And  by  that  time  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  they  had 
worked  four  hours.  They  all  jumped  up  in  a  great  hurry 
then,  and  began  to  say  good-by. 

"  This  must  not  be  the  last  we  are  to  have  of  you,  Miss 
Holabird,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  laying  Rosamond's 
shawl  across  her  shoulders. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mrs  Scherman,  "  when  you  are 
all  coming  to  our  house  to  tea  to-morrow  night." 

Rosamond  bade  the  Ripwinkleys  good-night  with  a  most 
sweet  cordiality,  and  thanks  for  the  pleasure  she  had  had, 
and  she  told  Hazel  and  her  mother  that  it  was  "  neither 
beginning  nor  end,  she  believed  ;  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  only  found  a  little  new  piece  of  her  world,  and 
that  Aspen  Street  led  right  out  of  Westover  in  the  invisi- 
ble geography,  she  was  sure." 

"  Come  !  "  said  Miss  Oraydocke,  standing  on  the  door- 
steps. "  It  is  all  invisible  geography  out  here,  pretty 
nearly  ;  and  we've  all  our  different  ways  to  go,  and  only 
these  two  unhappy  gentlemen  to  insist  on  seeing  every- 
body home." 

So  first  the  whole  party  went  round  with  Miss  Hapsie  ; 
and  then  Kenneth  and  Dorris,  who  always  went  home 
with  Desire,  walked  up  Hanley  Street  with  the  §cher- 
mans  and  Rosamond,  and  so  across  through  Dane  Street 
to  Shubarton  Place. 

But  while  they  were  on  their  way,  Hazel  Ripwinkley 
was  saying  to  her  mother,  up  in  her  room,  where  they 
made  sometimes  such  long  good-nights, — 

"  Mother !  there  were  some  little  children  taken  away 
from  you  before  we  came,  you  know  ?  And  now  we've 


PIECES   OF   WORLDS.  165 

got  this  great  big  house,  and  plenty  of  things,  more  than 
it  takes  for  us." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  expected  that  we  should  do 
something  with  the  corners  ?  There's  room  for  some  real 
good  little  times  for  somebody.  I  think  we  ought  to  be- 
gin a  beehive." 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  kissed  Hazel  very  tenderly,  and  said, 
only,  — 

"  We  can  wait,  and  see." 

Those  are  just  the  words  that  mothers  so  often  put  chil- 
dren off  with  !  But  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  being  one  of  the 
real  folks,  meant  it ;  the  very  heart  of  it. 

In  that  little  talk,  they  took  the  consecration  in ;  they 
would  wait  and  see ;  when  people  do  that,  with  an  ex- 
pectation, the  beehive  begins. 

Up  Hanley  Street,  the  six  fell  into  pairs. 

Mrs.  Scherman  and  Desire,  Dorris  and  Mr.  Scherman, 
Rosamond  and  Kenneth  Kincaid. 

It  only  took  from  Bridgeley  Street  up  to  Dane,  to  tell 
Kenneth  Kincaid  so  much  about  Westover,  in  answer  to 
his  questions,  that  he  too  thought  he  had  found  a  new 
little  piece  of  his  world.  What  Rosamond  thought,  I  do 
not  know  ;  but  a  girl  never  gives  a  young  man  so  much 
as  she  gave  Kenneth  in  that  little  walk  without  having 
some  of  the  blessed  consciousness  that  comes  with  giving. 
The  sun  knows  it  shines,  I  dare  say ;  or  else  there  is  a 
great  waste  of  hydrogen  and  other  things. 

There  was  not  much  left  for  poor  little  Desire  after 
they  parted  from  the  Schermans  and  turned  the  corner  of 
Dane  Street.  Only  a  little  bit  of  a  way,  in  which  new 
talk  could  hardly  begin,  and  just  time  for  a  pause  that 


166  REAL  FOLKS. 

showed  how  the  talk  that  had  come  to  an  end  was  missed  ; 
or  how,  perhaps,  it  stayed  in  the  mind,  repeating  itself,  and 
keeping  it  full. 

Nobody   said   anything   till   they   had    crossed   B 

Street ;  and  then  Dorris  said,  "  How  beautiful,  —  real 
beautiful,  Rosamond  Holabird  is  !  "  And  Kenneth  an- 
swered, "  Did  you  hear  what  she  said  to  Mrs.  Ripwink- 
ley?" 

They  were  full  of  Rosamond  !  Desire  did  not  speak  a 
word. 

Dorris  had  heard  and  said  it  over.  It  seemed  to  please 
Kenneth  to  hear  it  again.  "  A  piece  of  her  world  !  " 

"  How  quickly  a  true  person  springs  to  what  belongs  to 
—  their  life  !  "  said  Kenneth,  using  that  wrong  little  pro- 
noun that  we  shall  never  be  able  to  do  without. 

"  People  don't  always  get  what  belongs,  though," 
blurted  Desire  at  last,  just  as  they  came  to  the  long  door- 
steps. "  Some  people's  lives  are  like  complementary  col- 
ors, I  think  ;  they  see  blue,  and  live  red  !  " 

"  But  the  colors  are  only  accidentally  —  I  mean  tem- 
porarily —  divided ;  they  are  together  in  the  sun  ;  and 
they  join  somewhere  —  beyond." 

"  I  hate  beyond  !  "  said  Desire,  recklessly.  "  Good- 
night. Thank  you."  And  she  ran  up  the  steps. 

Nobody  knew  what  she  meant.  Perhaps  she  hardly 
knew  herself. 

They  only  thought  that  her  home  life  was  not  suited 
to  her,  and  that  she  took  it  hard. 


"SESAME;  AND   LILIES."  167 

XIV. 

"  SESAME  J    AND   LILIES." 

T'VE  got  a  discouragement  at  mj  stomach,"  said  Lu- 
-*-  clarion  Grapp. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  nat- 
urally. 

"  Mrs.  Scarup.  I've  been  there.  There  ain't  any  bot- 
tom to  it." 

"  Well  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  knew  that  Luclarion  had  more  to  say, 
and  that  she  waited  for  this  monosyllable. 

"  She's  sick  again.  And  Scarup,  he's  gone  out  West ; 
spending  a  hundred  dollars  to  see  whether  or  no  there's  a 
chance  anywhere  for  a  smart  man,  —  and  that  ain't  he,  so 
it's  a  double  waste,  —  to  make  fifty.  No  girl ;  and  the 
children  all  under  foot,  and  Pinkie  looking  miserable  over 
the  dishes." 

"  Pinkie  isn't  strong." 

"  No.  She's  powerful  weak.  I  just  wish  you'd  seen 
that  dirty  settin'-room  fire-place ;  looks  as  if  it  hadn't  been 
touched  since  Scarup  smoked  his  pipe  there,  the  night  be- 
fore he  went  off  a  wild-gandering.  And  clo'es  to  be 
ironed,  and  the  girl  cleared  out,  because  '  she'd  always 
been  used  to  fust-class  families.'  There  wasn't  anything 
to  your  hand,  and  you  couldn't  teh1  where  to  begin,  unless 
you  began  with  a  cataplasm  !  " 

Luclarion  had  heard,  by  chance,  of  a  cataclysm,  and 
that  was  what  she  meant. 

"  It  wants  —  creation,  over  again !     Mrs.  Scarup  hadn't . 


168  REAL    FOLKS. 

any  fit  breakfast ;  there  was  burnt  toast,  made  out  of 
tough  bread,  that  she'd  been  trying  to  eat ;  and  a  cup  of 
tea,  half  drunk ;  something  the  matter  with  that,  I  pre- 
sume. I'd  have  made  her  some  gruel,  if  there'd  been  a 
fire ;  and  if  there'd  been  any  kindlings,  I'd  have  made  her 
a  fire  ;  but  there  'twas ;  there  wasn't  any  bottom  to  it !  " 

"  You  had  better  make  the  gruel  here,  Luclarion." 

"  That's  what  I  come  back  for.  But  —  Mrs.  Rip- 
winkley !  " 

"Well?" 

"  Don't  it  appear  to  you  it's  a  kind  of  a  stump  ?  I 
don't  want  to  do  it  just  for  the  satisfaction ;  though  it 
would  be  a  satisfaction  to  plough  everything  up  thorough, 
and  then  rake  it  over  smooth  ;  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  What  have  you  thought,  Luclarion  ?  Something,  of 
course." 

"  She  wants  a  real  smart  girl  —  for  two  dollars  a  week. 
She  can't  get  her,  because  she  ain't.  And  I  kind  of  felt 
as  though  I  should  like  to  put  in.  Seemed  to  me  it  was  a 
—  but  there  !  I  haven't  any  right  to  stump  you" 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  rather  an  aggravation  ?  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  would  mean  to  stay  altogether  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  —  but  don't  go  putting  it  into  my  head, 
Mrs.  Ripwinkley.  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  was.  And  I  don't 
think  it  goes  quite  so  far  as  that,  yet.  We  ain't  never 
stumped  to  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time.  What  she 
wants  is  to  be  straightened  out.  And  when  things  once 
looked  my  way,  she  might  get  a  girl,  you  see.  Anyhow, 
'twould  encourage  Pinkie,  and  kind  of  set  her  going. 
Pinkie  likes  things  nice  ;  but  it's  such  a  Hoosac  tunnel  to 
lundertake,  that  she  just  lets  it  all  go,  and  gets  off  up- 
stairs, and  sticks  a  ribbon  in  her  hair.  That's  all  she  can 
•do.  I  s'pose  'twould  take  a  fortnight,  maybe?" 


"  SESAME  ;    AND   LILIES."  169 

"  Take  it,  Luclarion,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  smiling. 

Luclarion  understood  the  smile. 

"  I  s'pose  you  think  it's  as  good  as  took.  Well,  perhaps 
it  is  —  spoke  for.  But  it  wasn't  me,  you  know.  Now 
what'll  you  do  ?  " 

"  Go  into  the  kitchen  and  make  the  pudding." 

"But  then?" 

"  We  are  not  stumped  for  then,  you  know." 

"  There  was  a  colored  girl  here  yesterday,  from  up  in 
Garden  Street,  asking  if  there  was  any  help  wanted.  I 
think  she  came  in  partially,  to  look  at  the  flowers ;  the 
'sturtiums  are  splendid,  and  I  gave  her  some.  She  was 
awfully  dressed  up,  —  for  colors,  I  mean  ;  but  she  looked 
clean  and  pleasant,  and  spoke  bright.  Maybe  she'd  come, 
temporary.  She  seemed  taken  with  things.  I  know  where 
to  find  her,  and  I  could  go  there  when  I  got  through  with 
the  gruel.  Mrs.  Scarup  must  have  that  right  off/' 

And  Luclarion  hurried  away. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  had  lent  Lu- 
clarion ;  but  Miss  Grapp  had  not  found  a  kitchen  mission 
in  Boston  heretofore.  It  was  something  new  to  bring  the 
fashion  of  simple,  prompt,  neighborly  help  down  intact 
from  the  hills,  and  apply  it  here  to  the  tangle  of  city  living, 
that  is  made  up  of  so  many  separate  and  unrecognized 
struggles. 

When  Hazel  came  home  from  school,  she  went  all  the 
way  up  the  garden  walk,  and  in  at  the  kitchen  door. 
"  That  was  the  way  she  took  it  all,"  she  said  ;  "  first  the 
flowers,  and  then  Luclarion  and  what  they  had  for  dinner, 
and  a  drink  of  water;  and  then  up-stairs,  to  mother." 

To-day  she  encountered  in  the  kitchen  a  curious  and 
startling  apparition  of  change. 

A  very  dusky  brown  maiden,  with  a  petticoat  of  flash- 


170  REAL   FOLKS. 

ing  purple,  and  a  jacket  of  crimson,  and  extremely  puz- 
zling hair  tied  up  with  knots  of  corn  color,  stood  in  posses- 
sion over  the  stove,  tending  a  fricassee,  of  which  Hazel 
recognized  at  once  the  preparation  and  savor  as  her 
mother's ;  while  beside  her  on  a  cricket,  munching  cold 
biscuit  and  butter  with  round,  large  bites  of  very  white 
little  teeth,  sat  a  small  girl  of  five  of  the  same  color, 
gleaming  and  twinkling  as  nothing  human  ever  does  gleam 
and  twinkle  but  a  little  darkle  child. 

"  Where  is  Luclarion  ?  "  asked  Hazel,  standing  stiU  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  in  her  astonishment. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  Damaris,  and  this  one's  little  Vash. 
Don't  go  for  callin'  me  Dam,  now  ;  the  boys  did  that  in 
my  last  place,  an'  I  left,  don'  yer  see  ?  I  ain't  goin'  to  be 
swore  to,  anyhow  !  " 

"And  Damaris  glittered  at  Hazel,  with  her  shining 
teeth  and  her  quick  eyes,  full  of  fun  and  good  humor, 
and  enjoyed  her  end  of  the  joke  extremely. 

"  Have  you  come  to  stay?  "  asked  Hazel. 

"  'Course.     I  don'  mostly  come  for  to  go." 

"  What  does  it  mean,  mother  ?  "  Hazel  asked,  hurry- 
ing up  into  her  mother's  room. 

And  then  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  explained. 

"  But  what  IB  she  ?  Black  or  white  ?  She's  got 
straight  braids  and  curls  at  the  back  of  her  head,  like 
everybody's  "  — 

"  'Course,"  said  a  voice  in  the  doorway.  "  An'  wool  on 
top,  —  place  where  wool  ought  to  grow,  —  same  's  every- 
body, too." 

Damaris  had  come  up,  according  to  orders,  to  report  a 
certain  point  in  the  progress  of  the  fricassee. 

"  They  all  pulls  the  wool  over  they  eyes,  now-days,  an' 
sticks  the  straight  on  behind.  Where's  the  difference  ?  " 


"  SESAME  ;    AND   LILIES."  171 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  made  some  haste  to  rise  and  move 
toward  the  doorway,  to  go  down  stairs,  turning  Damaris 
from  her  position,  and  checking  further  remark.  Diana 
and  Hazel  stayed  behind,  and  laughed.  "  What  fun ! " 
they  said. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  funny  fortnight ;  but  it  is  not 
the  fun  I  have  paused  to  tell  you  of;  something  more 
came  of  it  in  the  home-life  of  the  Ripwinkleys ;  that 
which  they  were  "  waiting  to  see." 

Damaris  wanted  a  place  where  she  could  take  her  little 
sister ;  she  was  tired  of  leaving  her  "  shyin'  round,"  she 
said.  And  Vash,  with  her  round,  fuzzy  head,  her  bright 
eyes,  her  little  flashing  teeth,  and  her  polished  mahogany 
skin,  —  darting  up  and  down  the  house  "  on  Aarons,"  or 
for  mere  play,  —  dressed  in  her  gay  little  scarlet  flannel 
shirt-waist,  and  black  and  orange  striped  petticoat,  —  was 
like  some  "  splendid,  queer  little  fire-bug,"  Hazel  said,  and 
made  a  surprise  and  a  picture  wherever  she  came.  She 
was  "cute,"'  too,  as  Damaris  had  declared  beforehand;  she 
was  a  little  wonder  at  noticing  and  remembering,  and  for 
all  sorts  of  handiness  that  a  child  of  five  could  possibly  be 
put  to. 

Hazel  dressed  rag  babies  for  her,  and  made  her  a  soap- 
box baby-house  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen,  and  taught 
her  her  letters  ;  and  began  to  think  that  she  should  hate 
to  have  her  go  when  Luclarion  came  back. 

Damaris  proved  clever  and  teachable  in  the  kitchen  ; 
and  had,  above  all,  the  rare  and  admirable  disposition  to 
keep  things  scrupulously  as  she  had  found  them  ;  so  that 
Luclarion,  in  her  afternoon  trips  home,  was  comforted 
greatly  to  find  that  while  she  was  "  clearing  and  plough- 
ing "  at  Mrs.  Scarup's,  her  own  garden  of  neatness  was 
not  being  turned  into  a  howling  wilderness ;  and  she  ob- 


172  REAL    FOLKS. 

served,  as  is  often  done  so  astutely,  that  "  when  you  do 
find  a  neat,  capable,  colored  help,  it's  as  good  help  as  you 
can  have."  Which  you  may  notice  is  just  as  true  without 
the  third  adjective  as  with. 

Luclarion  herself  was  having  a  splendid  time. 

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  announce  to  Mrs.  Scarup 
that  she  was  out  of  her  place  for  two  weeks,  and  would 
like  to  come  .to  her  at  her  wages ;  which  Mrs.  Scarup 
received  with  some  such  awed  and  unbelieving  astonish- 
ment as  she  might  have  done  the  coming  of  a  legion  of 
angels  with  Gabriel  at  their  head.  And  when  one  strong, 
generous  human  will,  with  powers  of  brain  and  body 
under  it  sufficient  to  some  good  work,  comes  down  upon  it 
as  Luclarion  did  upon  hers,  there  is  what  Gabriel  and  his 
angels  stand  for,  and  no  less  sent  of  God. 

The  second  thing  Luclarion  did  was  to  clean  that  "  set- 
tin'-room  fire-place,"  to  restore  the  pleasant  brown  color 
of  its  freestone  hearth  and  jambs,  to  polish  its  rusty  brasses 
till  they  shone  like  golden  images  of  gods,  and  to  lay  an 
ornamental  fire  of  chips  and  clean  little  sticks  across  the 
irons.  Then  she  took  a  wet  broom  and  swept  the  carpet 
three  times,  and  dusted  everything  with  a  damp  duster ; 
and  then  she  advised  Mrs.  Scarup,  whom  the  gruel  had 
already  cheered  and  strengthened,  to  be  "  helped  down,  and 
sit  there  in  the  easy-chair,  for  a  change,  and  let  her  take 
her  room  in  hand."  And  no  doctor  ever  prescribed  any 
change  with  better  effect.  There  are  a  good  many  changes 
that  might  be  made  for  people,  without  sending  them  be- 
yond their  own  doors.  But  it  isn't  the  doctors  who  always 
know  what  change,  or  would  dare  to  prescribe  it  if  they 
did. 

Mrs.  Scarup  was  "  helped  down,"  it  seemed,  —  really 
up,  rather,  —  into  a  new  world.  Things  had  begun  all 


"SESAME;  AND  LILIES."  173 

over  again.  It  was  worth  while  to  get  well,  and  take 
courage.  Those  brasses  shone  in  her  face  like  morning 
suns. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare  to  Man,  Miss  Grapp  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed ;  and  breath  and  expression  failed  together,  and 
that  was  all  she  could  say. 

Up-stairs,  Luclarion  swept  and  rummaged.  She  found 
the  sheet  and  towel  drawers,  and  made  everything  white 
and  clean.  She  laid  fresh  napkins  over  the  table  and 
bureau  tops,  and  set  the  little  things  —  boxes,  books, 
what  not,  —  daintily  about  on  them.  She  put  a  clean 
spread  on  the  bed,  and  gathered  up  things  for  the  wash 
she  meant  to  have,  with  a  recklessness  that  Mrs.  Scarup 
herself  would  never  have  dared  to  use,  in  view  of  any 
"  help  "  she  ever  expected  to  do  it. 

And  then,  with  Pinkie  to  lend  feeble  assistance,  Lucla- 
rion turned  to  in  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  "  clear  treat,"  she  told  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  after- 
ward. "  Things  had  got  to  that  state  of  mussiness,  that 
you  just  began  at  one  end  and  worked  through  to  the 
other,  and  every  inch  looked  new  made  over  after  you  as 
you  went  along." 

She  put  the  children  out  into  the  yard  on  the  planks, 
and  gave  them  tin  pans  and  clothes-pins  to  keep  house 
with,  and  gingerbread  for  their  dinner.  She  and  Pinkie 
had  cups  of  tea,  and  Mrs.  Scarup  had  her  gruel,  and  went 
up  to  bed  again  ;  and  that  was  another  new  experience, 
and  a  third  stage  in  her  treatment  and  recovery. 

When  it  came  to  the  cellar,  Luclarion  got  the  chore- 
man  in  ;  and  when  all  was  done,  she  looked  round  on  the 
renovated  home,  and  said  within  herself,  "  If  Scarup,  now, 
will  only  break  his  neck,  or  get  something  to  do,  and  stay 
away  with  his  pipes  and  his  boots  and  his  contraptions  !  " 


174  REAL   FOLKS. 

And  Scamp  did.  He  found  a  chance  in  some  freight- 
house,  and  wrote  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  stay  out 
there  all  winter;  sind  Mrs.  Scarup  made  little  excursions 
about  the  house  with  her  returning  strength,  and  every 
journey  was  a  pleasure-trip,  and  the  only  misery  was  that 
at  the  end  of  the  fortnight  Miss  Grapp  was  going  away, 
and  then  she  should  be  "  all  back  in  the  swamp  again." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Luclarion  ;  "  Pinkie's  waked  up, 
and  she!s  going  to  take  pride,  and  pick  up  after  the  chil- 
dren. She  can  do  that,  now;  but  she  couldn't  shoulder 
everything.  And  you'll  have  somebody  in  the  kitchen. 
See  if  you  don't.  I've  'most  a  mind  to  say  I'll  stay  till 
you  do." 

Luclarion's  faith  was  strong ;  she  knew,  she  said,  that 
"  if  she  was  doing  at  her  end,  Providence  wasn't  leaving 
off  at  his.  Things  would  come  round." 

This  was  how  they  did  come  round. 

It  only  wanted  a  little  sorting  about.  The  pieces  of  the 
puzzle  were  all  there.  Hazel  Ripwinkley  settled  the  first 
little  bit  in  the  right  place.  She  asked  her  mother  one 
night,  if  she  didn't  think  they  might  begin  their  beehive 
with  a  fire-fly?  Why  couldn't  they  keep  little  Vash  ? 

"  And  then,"  said  Diana,  in  her  quiet  way,  slipping  one 
of  the  big  three-cornered  pieces  of  the  puzzle  in,  "  Da- 
maris  might  go  to  Mrs.  Scarup  for  her  two  dollars  a  week. 
She  is  willing  to  work  for  that,  if  she  can  get  Vash  taken. 
And  this  would  be  all  the  same,  and  better." 

Desire  was  with  them  when  Luclarion  came  in,  and 
heard  it  settled. 

"  How  is  it  that  things  always  fall  right  together  for 
you,  so  ?  How  came  Daman's  to  come  along  ?  " 

"  You  just  take  hold  of  something  and  try,"  said  Lu- 
clarion. "  You'll  find  there's  always  a  working  along- 
side. Put  up  your  sails,  and  the  wind  will  fill  'em." 


"SESAME;  AND  LILIES."  175 

Uncle  Titus  wanted  to  know  "  what  sort  of  use  a  thing 
like  that  could  be  in  a  house  ?  " 

He  asked  it  in  his  very  surliest  fashion.  If  they  had 
had  any  motives  of  fear  or  favor,  they  would  have  been 
disconcerted,  and  begun  to  think  they  had  made  a  mistake. 

But  Hazel  spoke  up  cheerily, — 

"  Why,  to  wait  on  people,  uncle.  She's  the  nicest  little 
fetch-and-carrier  you  ever  saw  !  " 

"  Humph  !  who  wants  to  be  waited  on,  here  ?  You 
girls,  with  feet  and  hands  of  your  own  ?  Your  mother 
doesn't,  I  know." 

"  Well,  to  wait  ow,  then,"  says  Hazel,  boldly.  «'  I'm 
making  her  a  baby-house,  and  teaching  her  to  read  ;  and 
Diana  is  knitting  scarlet  stockings  for  her,  to  wear  this 
winter.  We  like  it." 

"  O,  if  you  like  it !  That's  always  a  reason.  I  only 
want  to  have  people  give  the  real  one." 

And  Uncle  Titus  walked  off,  so  that  nobody  could  tell 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 

Nobody  told  him  anything  about  the  Scarups.  But  do 
you  suppose  he  didn't  know?  Uncle  Titus  Oldways  was 
as  sharp  as  he  was  blunt. 

"  I  guess  I  know,  mother,"  said  Hazel,  a  little  while 
after  this,  one  day,  *'  how  people  write  stories." 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  her  mother,  looking  up,  ready  to  be 
amused  with  Hazel's  deep  discovery. 

"  If  they  can  just  begin  with  one  thing,  you  see,  that 
makes  the  next  one.  It  can't  help  it,  hardly.  Just  as  it . 
does  with  us.  What  made  me  think  of  it  was,  that  it 
seemed  to  me  there  was  another  little  piece  of  our  bee- 
hive story  all  ready  to  put  on  ;  and  if  we  went  and  did  it, 
—  I  wonder  if  you  wouldn't,  mother  ?  It  fits  exactly." 

"  Let  me  see." 


176  BEAL   FOLKS. 

"  That  little  lame  Sulie  at  Miss  Craydocke's  Home,  that 
we  like  sb  much.  Nobody  adopts  her  away,  because  she 
is  lame  ;  her  legs  are  no  use  at  all,  you  know,  and  she 
just  sits  all  curled  up  in  that  great  round  chair  that  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  gave  her,  and  sews  patchwork,  and  makes  paper 
dolls.  And  when  she  drops  her  scissors,  or  her  thread, 
somebody  has  to  come  and  pick  it  up.  She  wants  waiting 
on  ;  she  just  wants  a  little  lightning-bug,  like  Vash,  to  run 
round  for  her  all  the  time.  And  we  don't,  you  see  ;  and 
we've  got  Vash  !  And  Vash  — likes  paper  dolls." 

Hazel  completed  the  circle  of  her  argument  with  great 
triumph. 

"  An  extra  piece  of  bread  to  finish  your  too  much  but- 
ter," said  Diana. 

"  Yes.  Doesn't  it  just  make  out  ?  "  said  Hazel,  abat- 
ing not  a  jot  of  her  triumph,  and  taking  things  literally,  as 
nobody  could  do  better  than  she,  upon  occasion,  for  all  her 
fancy  and  intuition. 

"  I  wonder  what  Uncle  Oldways  would  say  to  that," 
said  Diana. 

"  He'd  say  '  Faugh,  faugh ! '  But  he  doesn't  mean 
faugh,  faugh,  half  the  time.  If  he  does,  he  doesn't  stick 
to  it.  Mother,"  she  asked  rather  suddenly,  "  do  you 
think  Uncle  Oldways  feels  as  if  we  oughtn't  to  do  —  other 
things  —  with  his  money  ?  " 

"  What  other  things  ?  " 

"  Why,  these  others.  Vash,  and  Sulie,  perhaps. 
Wouldn't  he  like  it  if  we  turned  his  house  into  a  Bee- 
hive ?  " 

"  It  isn't  his  house,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley.  "  He  has 
given  it  to  me." 

"  Well,  —  do  you  feel  *  obligated,'  as  Luclarion  says  ?  " 

"  In  a  certain  degree,  —  yes.     I  feel  bound  to  consider 


"  SESAME  ;    AND   LILIES."  177 

his  comfort  and  wishes,  as  far  as  regards  his  enjoyment 
with  us,  and  fulfilling  what  he  reasonably  looked  for  when 
he  brought  us  here." 

"  Would  that  interfere  ?  " 

"  Suppose  you  ask  him,  Hazel  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  could  do  that." 

"  Hazel  wouldn't  mind  doing  anything ! "  said  Diana^ 
who,  to  tell  the  truth  was  a  little  afraid  of  Uncle  TitusT 
and  who  dreaded  of  all  things,  being  snubbed. 

"  Only,"  said  Hazel,  to  whom  something  else  had  just 
occurred,  "  wouldn't  he  think  —  wouldn't  it  be  —  your 
business  ?  " 

"It  is  all  your  plan,  Hazel.  I  think  he  would  see 
that." 

"  And  you  are  willing,  if  he  doesn't  care  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  quite  say  that.  It  would  be  a  good  deal  to 
think  of." 

"  Then  I'll  wait  till  you've  thought,"  said  clear-headed 
little  Hazel. 

"  But  it  fits  right  on.  I  can  see  that.  And  Miss 
Craydocke  said  things  would,  after  we  had  begun." 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  took  it  into  her  thoughts,  and  carried 
it  about  with  her  for  days,  and  considered  it ;  asking  her- 
self questions. 

Was  it  going  aside  in  search  of  an  undertaking  that  did 
not  belong  to  her  ? 

Was  it  bringing  home  a  care,  a  responsibility,  for  which 
they  were  not  fitted,  —  which  might  interfere  with  the 
things  they  were  meant,  and  would  be  called,  to  do  ? 

There  was  room  and  opportunity,  doubtless,  for  them 
to  do  something ;  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  had  felt  this  ;  she  had 
not  waited  for  her  child  to  think  of  it  for  her ;  she  had 
only  waited,  in  her  new,  strange  sphere,  for  circumstances 

12 


178  REAL    FOLKS. 

to  guide  the  way,  and  for  the  Giver  of  all  circumstance 
to  guide  her  thought.  She  chose,  also,  in  the  things  that 
would  affect  her  children's  life  and  settle  duties  for  them, 
to  let  them  grow  also  to  those  duties,  and  the  perception 
of  them,  with  her.  To  this  she  led  them,  by  all  her  train- 
ing and  influence  ;  and  now  that  in  Hazel,  her  child  of 
quick  insight  and  true  instincts,  this  influence  was  bearing 
fruit  and  quickening  to  action,  she  respected  her  first  im- 
pulses ;  she  believed  in  them  ;  they  had  weight  with  her, 
as  argument  in  themselves.  These  impulses,  in  young, 
true  souls,  freshly  responding,  are,  she  knew,  as  the  proof- 
impressions  of  God's  Spirit. 

Yet  she  would  think  ;  that  was  her  duty  ;  she  would 
not  do  a  thing  hastily,  or  unwisely. 

Sulie  Praile  had  been  a  good  while,  now,  at  the  Home. 

A  terrible  fall,  years  ago,  had  caused  a  long  and  painful 
illness,  and  resulted  in  her  present  helplessness.  But 
above  those  little  idle,  powerless  limbs,  that  lay  curled 
under  the  long,  soft  skirt  she  wore,  like  a  baby's  robe, 
were  a  beauty  and  a  brightness,  a  quickness  of  all  possible 
motion,  a  dexterous  use  of  hands,  and  a  face  of  gentle 
peace  and  sometimes  glory,  that  were  like  a  benediction 
on  the  place  that  she  was  in  ;  like  the  very  Holy  Ghost  in 
tender  form  like  a  dove,  resting  upon  it,  and  abiding 
among  them  who  were  there. 

In  one  way,  it  would  hardly  be  so  much  a  giving  as  a 
taking,  to  receive  her  in.  Yet  there  was  care  to  assume, 
the  continuance  of  care  to  promise  or  imply ;  the  possibil- 
ity of  conflicting  plans  in  much  that  might  be  right  and 
desirable  that  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  should  do  for  her  own. 
Exactly  what,  if  anything,  it  would  be  right  to  undertake 
in  this,  was  matter  for  careful  and  anxious  reflection. 

The  resources  of  the  Home  were  not  very  large  ;  there 


"  SESAME  ;    AND   LILIES."  179 

were  painful  cases  pressing  their  claims  continually ;  as 
fast  as  a  little  place  was  vacated  it  could  be  filled;  was 
wanted,  ten  times  over ;  and  Sulie  Praile  had  been  there 
a  good  while.  If  somebody  would  only  take  her,  as  peo- 
ple were  very  ready  to  take  —  away  to  happy,  simple, 
comfortable  country  homes,  for  mere  childhood's  sake  — 
the  round,  rosy,*-  strong,  and  physically  perfect  ones  ! 
But  Sulie  must  be  lifted  and  tended  ;  she  must  keep  some- 
body at  home  to  look  after  her ;  no  one  could  be  expected 
to  adopt  a  child  like  that. 

Yet  Hazel  Ripwinkley  thought  they  could  be  ;  thought, 
in  her  straightforward,  uncounting  simplicity,  that  it  was 
just  the  natural,  obvious,  beautiful  thing  to  do,  to  take 
her  home  —  into  a  real  home  —  into  pleasant  family  life  ; 
where  things  would  not  crowd ;  where  she  could  be  moth- 
ered and  sistered,  as  girls  ought  to  be,  when  there  are  so 
many  nice  places  in  the  world,  and  not  so  many  people  in 
them  as  there  might  be.  When  there  could  be  so  much 
visiting,  and  spare  rooms  kept  always  in  everybody'*  house, 
why  should  not  somebodv  who  needed  to,  just  come  in  and 
stay  ?  What  were  the  spare  places  made  for  ? 

"  We  might  have  Sulie  for  this  winter,"  said  Mrs.  Rip- 
winkley, at  last.  "  They  would  let  her  come  to  us  for 
that  time  ;  and  it  would  be  a  change  for  her,  and  leave  a 
place  for  others.  Then  if  anything  made  it  impossible  for 
us  to  do  more,  we  should  not  have  raised  an  expectation 
to  be  disappointed.  And  if  we  can  and  ought  to  do  more, 
it  will  be  shown  us  by  that  time  more  certainly." 

She  asked  Miss  Craydocke  about  it,  when  she  came 

home  from  Z that  fall.  She  had  been  away  a  good 

deal  lately  ;  she  had  been  up  to  Z to  two  weddings, 

—  Leslie  Goldthwaite's  and  Barbara  Holabird's.  Now 
she  was  back  again,  and  settled  down. 


REAL    FOLKS. 

Miss  Craydocke  thought  it  a  good  tiling  wisely  limited. 

"  Sulie  needs  to  be  with  older  girls  ;  there  is  no  one  in 
the  Home  to  be  companion  to  her  ;  the  children  are  al- 
most all  little.  A  winter  here  would  be  a  blessing  to 
her  !  " 

"  But  the  change  again,  if  she  should  have  to  make 
it  ?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Ripwinkley. 

"  Good  things  don't  turn  to  bad  ones  because  you  can't 
have  them  any  more.  A  thing  you're  not  fit  for,  and 
never  ought  to  have  had,  may  ;  but  a  real  good  stays  by  ; 
it  overflows  all  the  rest.  Sulie  Praile's  life  could  never 
be  so  poor  again,  after  a  winter  here  with  you,  as  it  might 
be  if  she  had  never  had  it.  If  you'd  like  her,  let  her 
come,  and  don't  be  a  bit  afraid.  We're  only  working  by 
inches,  any  of  us ;  like  the  camel 's-hair  embroiderers  in 
China.  But  it  gets  put  together  ;  and  it  is  beautiful,  and 
large,  and  whole,  somewhere." 

"  Miss  Craydocke  always  knows,"  said  Hazel. 

Nobody  said  anything  again,  about  Uncle  Titus.  A 
winter's  plan  need  not  be  referred  to  him.  But  Hazel,  in 
her  own  mind,  had  resolved  to  find  out  what  was  Uncle 
Titus's,  generally  and  theoretically  ;  how  free  they  were 
to  be,  beyond  winter  plans  and  visits  of  weeks  ;  how  much 
scope  they  might  have  with  this  money  and  this  house, 
that  seemed  so  ample  to  their  simple  wants,  and  what 
they  might  do  with  it  and  turn  it  into,  if  it  came  into  their 
heads  or  hearts  or  consciences. 

So  one  day  she  went  in  and  sat  down  by  him  in  the 
study,  after  she  had  accomplished  some  household  errand 
with  Rachel  Froke. 

Other  people  approached  him  with  more  or  less  of 
strategy,  afraid  of  the  tiger  in  him  ;  Desire  Ledwith  faced 
him  courageously  ;  only  Hazel  came  and  nestled  up  beside 


"  SESAME  ;    AND    LILIES."  181 

him,  in  his  very  cage,  as  if  he  were  no  wild  beast,  after 
all. 

Yet  he  pretended  to  growl,  even  at  her,  sometimes  ;  it 
was  so  funny  to  see  her  look  up  and  chirp  on  after  it,  like 
some  little  bird  to  whom  the  language  of  beasts  was  no 

O  ~ 

language  at  all,  and  passed  by  on  the  air  as  a  very  big 
sound,  but  one  that  in  no  wise  concerned  it. 

"  We've  got  Sulie  Praile  to  spend  the  winter,  Uncle 
Titus,"  she  said. 

"  Who's  Sulie  Praile  ?  " 

"  The  lame  gii-1,  from  the  Home.  We  wanted  some- 
body for  Vash  to  wait  on,  you  know.  She  sits  in  a  round 
chair,  that  twists,  like  yours  ;  and  she's  — just  like  a  lily 
in  a  vase  !  "  Hazel  finished  her  sentence  with  a  simile 
quite  unexpected  to  herself. 

There  was  something  in  Sulie's  fair,  pale,  delicate  face, 
and  her  upper  figure,  rising  with  its  own  peculiar  lithe, 
easily  swayed  grace  from  among  the  gathered  .folds  of  the 
dress  of  her  favorite  dark  green  color,  that  reminded  — 
if  one  thought  of  it,  and  Hazel  turned  the  feeling  of  it 
into  a  thought  at  just  this  moment  —  of  a  beautiful  white 
flower,  tenderly  and  commodiously  planted. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it's  worth  while  to  have  a  lame  girl 
to  sit  up  in  a  round  chair,  and  look  like  a  lily  in  a  vase,  is 
it?" 

"  Uncle  Titus,  I  want  to  know  what  you  think  about 
some  things." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know  myself,  sometimes. 
To  find  out  what  one  thinks  about  things,  is  pretty  much 
the  whole  finding,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  very  metaphysical,  please,  Uncle  Titus. 
Don't  turn  your  eyes  round  into  the  back  of  your  head. 
That  isn't  what  I  mean." 


182  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Just  plain  looking." 

"O!" 

"  Don't  you  think,  when  there  are  places,  all  nice  and 
ready,  —  and  people  that  would  like  the  places  and 
haven't  got  'em,  —  that  the  people  ought  to  be  put  into 
the  places?  " 

"  '  The  shirtless  backs  put  into  the  shirts  ?  * : 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course.     What  are  shirts  made  for  ?  " 

"  For  some  people  to  have  thirty-six,  and  some  not  to 
have  any,"  said  Mr.  Old  ways. 

"  No,"  said  Hazel.  "  Nobody  wants  thirty-six,  all 
at  once.  But  what  I  mean  is,  rooms,  and  corners,  and 
pleasant  windows,  and  seats  at  the  table  ;  places  where 
people  come  in  visiting,  and  that  are  kept  saved  up.  I 
can't  bear  an  empty  box  ;  that  is,  only  for  just  one  pleas- 
ant minute,  while  I'm  thinking  what  I  can  put  into  it." 

"  Where's  your  empty  box,  now  ?  " 

"  Our  house,  was  rather  empty-boxy.  Uncle  Titus, 
do  you  mind  how  we  fill  it  up,  —  because  you  gave  it  to 
us,  you  know  ?  " 

"  No.     So  long  as  you  don't  crowd  yourselves  out." 

"  Or  you,  Uncle  Titus.  We  don't  want  to  crowd  you 
out.  Does  it  crowd  you  any  to  have  Sulie  and  Vash 
there,  and  to  have  us  '  took  up '  with  them,  as  Luclarion 
says  ?  " 

How  straight  Witch  Hazel  went  to  her  point ! 

"  Your  catechism  crowds  me  just  a  little,  child,"  said 
Uncle  Titus.  "I  want  to  see  you  go  your  own  way. 
That  is  what  I  gave  you  the  house  for.  Your  mother 
knows  that.  Did  she  send  you  here  to  ask  me  ?  " 

"  No.  I  wanted  to  know.  It  was  I  that  wanted  to 
begin  a  kind  of  a  Beehive  —  like  Miss  Craydocke's. 


"SESAME;  AND  LILIES."  183 

Would  you  care  if  it  was  turned  quite  into  a  Beehive, 
finally  ?  " 

Hazel  evidently  meant  to  settle  the  furthest  peradven- 
ture,  now  she  had  begun. 

"  Ask  your  mother  to  show  you  the  deed.  *  To  Frances 
Ripwinkley,  her  heirs  and  assigns,'  — •  that's  you  and 
Diana,  — '  for  their  use  and  behoof,  forever.'  I've  no 
more  to  do  with  it." 

"  '  Use,  and  behoof,' "  said  Hazel,  slowly.  And  then 
she  turned  the  leaves  of  the  great  Worcester  that  lay 
upon  the  study  table,  and  found  "  Behoof." 

"  '  Profit,  —  gain,  —  benefit ; '  then  that's  what  you 
meant ;  that  we  should  make  as  much  more  of  it  as  we 
could.  That's  what  I  think,  Uncle  Titus.  I'm  glad  you 
put  '  behoof  in." 

"  They  always  put  it  in,  child !  " 

"  Do  they  ?  Well,  then,  they  don't  always  work  it 
out !  "  and  Haz^el  laughed. 

At  that,  Mr.  Oldways  pulled  off  his  spectacles,  looked 
sharp  at  Hazel  with  two  sharp,  brown  eyes,  —  set  near 
together,  Hazel  noticed  for  the  first  time,  like  Desire's,  — 
let  the  keenness  turn  gradually  into  a  twinkle,  suffered 
the  muscles  that  had  held  his  lips  so  grim  to  relax,  and 
laughed  too  ;  his  peculiar,  up-and-down  shake  of  a  laugh, 
in  which  head  and  shoulders  made  the  motions,  as  if  he 
were  a  bottle,  and  there  were  a  joke  inside  of  him  which 
was  to  be  well  mixed  up  to  be  thoroughly  enjoyed. 

"  Go  home  to  your  mother,  jade-hopper !  "  he  said, 
when  he  had  done  ;  "  and  tell  her  I'm  coming  round 
to-night,  to  tea,  amongst  your  bumble-bees  and  your 
lilies !  " 


184  REAL    FOLKS. 

XV. 

WITH    ALL    ONE'S    MIGHT. 

LET  the  grapes  be  ever  so  sweet,  and  hang  in  plenty 
ever  so  low,  there  is  always  a  fair  bunch  out  of 
reach. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  longed,  now,  to  go  to  Europe. 

At  any  rate,  she  was  eager  to  have  her  daughters  go. 
But,  after  just  one  year,  to  take  what  her  Uncle  Oldways 
had  given  her,  in  return  for  her  settling  herself  near  him, 
and  wwsettle  herself,  and  go  off  to  the  other  side  of  the 
world !  Besides,  what  he  had  given  her  would  not  do  it. 
That  was  the  rub,  after  all.  What  was  two  thousand  a 
year,  now-a-days  ?  Nothing  is  anything,  now-a-days.  And 
it  takes  everything  to  do  almost  nothing. 

The  Ledwiths  were  just  as  much  pinched  now  as  they 
were  before  they  ever  heard  from  Uncle  Oldways.  People 
with  unlimited  powers  of  expansion  always  are  pinched ;  it 
is  good  for  them ;  one  of  the  saving  laws  of  nature  that 
keeps  things  decently  together. 

Yet,  in  the  pink  room  of  a  morning,  and  in  the  mellow- 
tinted  drawing-room  of  an  evening,  it  was  getting  to  be 
the  subject  oftenest  discussed.  It  was  that  to  which  they 
directed  the  combined  magnetism  of  the  family  will ; 
everything  was  brought  to  bear  upon  it ;  Bridget's  going 
.away  on  Monday  morning,  leaving  the  clothes  in  the  tubs, 
the  strike- price  of  coal,  and  the  overcharge  of  the  grocer; 
Florence's  music,  Helena's  hopeless  distress  over  French 
and  German ;  even  Desire's  listlessness  and  fidgets  ;  most 
•of  all  Mrs.  Megilp's  plans,  which  were  ripening  towards 


WITH    ALL    ONE'S   MIGHT.  185 

this  long  coveted  end.  She  and  Glossy  really  thought  they 
should  go  this  winter. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  economy  now ;  everybody's  going. 
The  Fargo's  and  the  Fayerwerses,  and  the  Hitherinyons 
have  broken  all  up,  and  are  going  out  to  stay  indefinitely. 
The  Fayerwerses  have  been  saving  up  these  four  years 
to  get  away,  there  are  so  many  of  them,  you  know ;  the 
passage  money  counts,  and  the  first  travelling ;  but  after 
you  are  over,  and  have  found  a  place  to  settle  down  in," 
—  then  followed  all  the  usual  assertions  as  to  cheap  delights 
and  inestimable  advantages,  and  emancipation  from  all 
American  household  ills  and  miseries. 

Uncle  Oklways  came  up  once  in  a  while  to  the  house  in 
Shubarton  Place,  and  made  an  evening  call.  He  seemed 
to  take  apricot-color  for  granted,  when  he  got  there,  as 
much  as  he  did  the  plain,  old,  unrelieved  brown  at  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley's  ;  he  sat  quite  unconcernedly  in  the  grand 
easy  chair  that  Laura  wheeled  out  for  him ;  indeed,  it 
seemed  as  if  he  really,  after  a  manner,  indorsed  every- 
thing by  his  acceptance  without  demur  of  what  he  found. 
But  then  one  must  sit  down  on  something ;  and  if  one  is 
offered  a  cup  of  coffee,  or  anything  on  a  plate,  one  cannot 
easily  protest  against  sea-green  china.  We  do,  and  we 
have,  and  we  wear,  and  we  say,  a  great  many  things,  and 
feel  ourselves  countenanced  and  confirmed,  somehow, — 
perhaps  excused,  —  because  nobody  appears  surprised  or 
says  anything.  But  what  should  they  say ;  and  would  it 
be  at  all  proper  that  they  should  be  surprised  ?  If  we  only 
thought  of  it,  and  once  tried  it,  we  might  perhaps  find  it 
quite  as  easy  and  encouraging,  on  the  same  principle,  not  to 
have  apricot  rep  and  sea-green  china. 

One  night  Mr.  Oldways  was  with  them  when  the  talk 
turned  eastwardlv  over  the  water.  There  were  new 


186  REAL    FOLKS. 

names  in  the  paper,  of  people  who  had  gone  out  in  the 
Aleppo,  and  a  list  of  Americans  registered  at  Bowles 
Brothers,'  among  whom  were  old  acquaintance. 

"  I  declare,  how  they  all  keep  turning  up  there  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Ledwith. 

"  The  war  doesn't  seem  to  make  much  difference,"  said 
her  husband. 

"  To  think  how  lucky  the  Vonderbargens  were,  to  be  in 
Paris  just  at  the  edge  of  the  siege  !  "  said  Glossy  Megilp. 
"They  came  back  from  Como  just  in  time  ;  and  poor  Mr. 
Washburne  had  to  fairly  hustle  them  off  at  last.  They 
were  buying  silks,  and  ribbons,  and  gloves,  up  to  the  last 
minute,  for  absolutely  nothing.  Mrs.  Vonderbargen  said  it 
seemed  a  sin  to  come  away  and  leave  anything.  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  how  they  got  them  all  home  ;  but  they 
did." 

Glossy  had  been  staying  lately  with  the  Vonderbargens 
in  New  York.  She  stayed  everywhere,  and  picked  up 
everything. 

"  You  have  been  abroad,  Mrs.  Scherman  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Ledwith,  inquiringly,  to  Asenath,  who  happened  to  be 
calling,  also,  with  her  husband,  and  was  looking  at  some 
photographs  with  Desire. 

'  "  No,  ma'am,"  answered  Mrs.  Scherman,  very  promptly, 
not  having  spoken  at  all  before  in  the  discussion.  "  I  do 
not  think  I  wish  to  go.  The  svphon  has  been  working  too 
long." 

"  The  Syphon  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ledwith  spoke  with  a  capital  S  in  her  mind  ;  but 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  what  Mrs.  Scherman  meant 
might  be  a  line  of  Atlantic  steamers  or  the  sea-serpent. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  The  emptying  back  and  forth.  There 
is'nt  much  that  is  foreign  over  there,  now,  nor  very  much 


WITH    ALL   ONE'S   MIGHT.  187 

that  is  native  here.  The  hemispheres  have  got  miserably 
mixed  up.  I  think  when  I  go  '  strange  countries  for  to 
see,'  it  will  have  to  be  Patagonia  or  Independent  Tartary." 

Uncle  Oldways  turned  round  with  his  great  chair,  so  as 
to  face  Asenath,  and  laughed  one  of  his  thorough  fun- 
digesting  laughs,  his  keen  eyes  half  shut  with  the  enjoy- 
ment, and  sparkling  out  through  their  cracks  at  her. 

But  Asenath  had  resumed  her  photographs  with  the 
sweetest  and  quietest  unconsciousness. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  let  her  alone  after  that ;  and  the  talk  ram- 
bled on  to  the  schools  in  Munich,  and  the  Miracle  Plays 
at  Oberammergau. 

"  To  think  of  that  invasion  !  "  said  Asenath,  in  a  low 
tone  to  Desire,  "  and  corrupting  that  into  a  show,  with  a 
run  of  regular  performances  !  I  do  believe  they  have 
pulled  down  the  last  unprofaned  thing  now,  and  trampled 
over  it." 

"  If  we  go,"  said  Mrs.  Megilp,"  we  shall  join  the  Fayer- 
werses,  and  settle  down  with  them  quietly  in  some  nice 
place  ;  and  then  make  excursions.  We  shall  not  try  to  do 
all  Europe  in  three  months ;  we  shall  choose,  and  take 
time.  It  is  the  only  way  really  to  enjoy  or  acquire  ;  and 
the  quiet  times  are  so  invaluable  for  the  lessons  and 
languages." 

Mrs.  Megilp  made  up  her  little  varnishes  with  the  gen- 
uine gums  of  truth  and  wisdom  ;  she  put  a  beautiful  shine 
even  on  to  her  limited  opportunities  and  her  enforced  fru- 
galities. 

"  Mrs.  Ledwith,  you  ought  to  let  Agatha  and  Florence 
go  too.  I  would  take  every  care  of  them ;  and  the  ex- 
pense would  be  so  divided  —  carnages,  and  couriers,  and 
everything  —  that  it  would  be  hardly  anything." 

"  It  is  a  great  opportunity,"  Mrs.  Ledwith  said,  and 


188  REAL    FOLKS. 

sighed.     "  But  it  is  different  with  us  from  what  it  is  with 

o 

you.  We  must  still  be  a  family  here,  with  nearly  the 
same  expenses.  To  be  sure  Desire  has  done  with  school, 
and  she  doesn't  care  for  gay  society,  and  Helena  is  a  mere 
child  yet;  if  it  ever  could  "  — 

And  so  it  went  on  between  the  ladies,  while  Mr.  Old- 
ways  and  Mr.  Ledwith  and  Frank  Scherman  got  into  war 
talk,  and  Bismarck  policy,  and  French  poss  —  no,  zw-possi- 
bilities. 

"  I  don't  think  Uncle  Oldways  minded  much,"  said 
Mrs.  Ledwith  to  Agatha,  and  Mrs.  Megilp,  up-stairs,  after 
everybody  had  gone  who  was  to  go. 

"  He  never  minds  anything,"  said  Agatha. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Megilp,  slowly.  "  He  seemed 
mightily  pleased  with  what  Asenath  Scherman  said." 

"  O,  she's  pretty,  and  funny ;  it  makes  no  difference 
what  she  says ;  people  are  always  pleased." 

"  We  might  dismiss  one  girl  this  winter,"  said  Mrs. 
Ledwith,  "  and  board  in  some  cheap  country  place  next 
summer.  I  dare  say  we  could  save  it  in  the  year's  round ; 
the  difference,  I  mean.  When  you  weren't  actually 
travelling,  it  wouldn't  cost  more  than  to  have  you  here,  — 
dress  and  all. 

"  They  wouldn't  need  to  have  a  new  thing,"  said 
Glossy. 

"  Those  people  out  at  Z want  to  buy  the  house. 

I've  a  great  mind  to  coax  Grant  to  sell,  and  take  a  slice 
right  out,  and  send  them,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith,  eagerly. 
She  was  always  eager  to  accomplish  the  next  new  thing 
for  her  children ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  did  not  much  con- 
sider herself.  And  so  far  as  they  had  ever  been  able,  the 
Ledwiths  had  always  been  rather  easily  given  to  "  taking 
the  slice  right  out." 


WITH   ALL   ONE'S   MIGHT.  189 

The  Megilps  had  had  a  little  legacy  of  two  or  three 
thousand  dollars,  and  were  quite  in  earnest  in  their  plans, 
this  time,  which  had  been  talk  with  them  for  many  years. 

"  Those  poor  Fayerwerses  !  "  said  Asenath  to  her  hus- 
band, walking  home.  "  Going  out  now,  after  the  cheap 
European  living  of  a  dozen  years  ago  !  The  ghost  always 
goes  over  on  the  last  load.  I  wonder  at  Mrs.  Megilp. 
She  generally  knows  better." 

"  She'll  do,"  said  Frank  Scherman.  "  If  the  Fayer- 
werses stick  anywhere,  as  they  probably  will,  she'll  hitch 
on  to  the  Fargo's,  and  turn  up  at  Jerusalem.  And  then 
there  are  to  be  the  Ledwiths,  and  their  '  little  slice.' ' 

"  O,  dear !  what  a  mess  people  do  make  of  living  ! " 
said  Asenath. 

Uncle  Titus  trudged  along  down  Dorset  Street  with  his 
stick  under  his  arm. 

"  Try 'em  !  Find  'em  out!"  he  repeated  to  himself. 
"  That  rs  what  Marmaduke  said.  Try  'em  with  this,  — 
try  'em  with  that ;  a  good  deal,  or  a  little  ;  having  and 
losing,  and  wanting.  That's  what  the  Lord  does  with  us 
all ;  and  I  begin  to  see  He  has  a  job  of  it !  " 

The  house  was  sold,  and  Agatha  and  Florence  went. 

It  made  home  dull  for  poor  Desire,  little  as  she  found  of 
real  companionship  with  her  elder  sisters.  But  then  she 
was  always  looking  for  it,  and  that  was  something.  Hus- 
bands and  wives,  parents  and  children,  live  on  upon  that, 
through  years  of  repeated  disappointments,  and  never  give 
up  the  expectation  of  that  which  is  somewhere,  and  which 
these  relations  represent  to  them,  through  all  their  frus- 
trated lives. 

That  is  just  why.     It  is  somewhere. 

It  turned  out  a  hard  winter,  in  many  ways,  for  Desire 
Ledwith.  She  hated  gay  company,  and  the  quiet  little 


190  REAL    FOLKS. 

circle  that  she  had  become  fond  of  at  her  Aunt  Ripwink- 
ley's  was  broken  somewhat  to  them  all,  and  more  to  De- 
sire than,  among  what  had  grown  to  be  her  chronic  dis- 
contents, she  realized  or  understood,  by  the  going  away 
for  a  time  of  Kenneth  Kincaid. 

What  was  curious  in  the  happening,  too,  he  had  gone 
up  to  "  And  "  to  build  a  church.  That  had  come  about 
through  the  Marchbankses'  knowledge  of  him,  and  this, 
you  remember,  through  their  being  with  the  Geoffreys 
when  the  Kincaids  were  first  introduced  in  Summit  Street. 

The  Marchbankses  and  the  Geoffreys  were  cousins.  A 
good  many  Boston  families  are. 

Mr.  Roger  Marchbanks  owned  a  good  deal  of  property 
in  And.  The  neighborhood  wanted  a  church  ;  and  he  in- 
terested himself  actively  and  liberally  in  behalf  of  it,  and 
gave  the  land,  —  three  lots  right  out  of  the  middle  of 
Marchbanks  Street,  that  ran  down  to  the  river. 

Dorris  kept  her  little  room,  and  was  neighborly  as  here- 
tofore ;  but  she  was  busy  with  her  music,  and  had  little 
time  but  her  evenings  ;  and  now  there  was  nobody  to 
walk  home  with  Desire  to  Shubarton  Place,  if  she  stayed 
in  Aspen  Street  to  tea.  She  came  sometimes,  and  stayed 
all  night  ;  but  that  was  dreary  for  Helena,  who  never  re- 
membered to  shut  the  piano  or  cover  up  the  canary,  or 
give  the  plants  in  the  bay  window  their  evening  sprinkle, 
after  the  furnace  heat  had  been  drying  them  all  day. 

Kenneth  Kincaid  came  down  for  his  Sundays  with 
Dorris,  and  his  work  at  the  Mission  ;  a  few  times  he  called 
in  at  Uncle  Oldways'  after  tea,  when  the  family  was  all 
together ;  but  they  saw  him  very  seldom  ;  he  gave  those 
Sunday  evenings  mostly  to  needed  rest,  and  to  quiet  talk 
with  Dorris. 

Desire  might  have  gone  to  the  Mission  this  winter,  easily 


WITH  ALL  ONE'S  MIGHT.  191 

enough,  after  all.  Agatha  and  Florence  and  Glossy  Megilp 
were  not  by  to  make  wondering  eyes,  or  smile  significant 
smiles ;  but  there  was  something  in  herself  that  prevented ; 
she  knew  that  it  would  be  more  than  half  to  get,  and  she 
still  thought  she  had  so  little  to  give  !  Besides,  Kenneth 
Kincaid  had  never  asked  her  again,  and  she  could  not  go 
to  him  and  say  she  would  come. 

Desire  Ledwith  began  to  have  serious  question  of  what 
life  was  ever  going  to  be  for  her.  She  imagined,  as  in  our 
early  years  and  our  first  gray  days  we  are  all  apt  to  imag- 
ine, that  she  had  found  out  a  good  deal  that  it  was  not 
going  to  be. 

She  was  not  going  to  be  beautiful,  or  accomplished,  or 
even,  she  was  afraid,  agreeable  ;  she  found  that  such  hard 
work  with  most  people.  She  was  not  ever — and  that 
conclusion  rested  closely  upon  these  foregoing  —  to  be 
married,  and  have  a  nice  husband  and  a  pretty  house,  and 
go  down  stairs  and  make  snow-puddings  and  ginger-snaps 
of  a  morning,  and  have  girls  staying  with  her,  and  pleas- 
ant people  in  to  tea ;  like  Asenath  Scherman.  She  couldn't 
write  a  book,  —  that,  perhaps,  was  one  of  her  premature 
decisions,  since  nobody  knows  till  they  try,  and  the  books 
are  lying  all  round,  in  leaves,  waiting  only  to  be  picked 
up  and  put  together,  —  or  paint  a  picture  ;  she  couldn't 
bear  parties,  and  clothes  were  a  fuss,  and  she  didn't  care  to 
go  to  Europe. 

She  thought  she  should  rather  like  to  be  an  old  maid,  if 
she  could  begin  right  off,  and  have  a  little  cottage  out  of 
town  somewhere,  or  some  cosy  rooms  in  the  city.  At 
least,  she  supposed  that  was  what  she  had  got  to  be,  and 
if  that  were  settled,  she  did  not  see  why  it  might  not  be 
begun  young,  as  well  as  married  life.  She  could  not  en- 
dure waiting,  when  a  thing  was  to  be  done. 


192  REAL    POLKS. 

"  Aunt  Frances,"  she  said  one  day,  "  I  wish  I  had  a 
place  of  my  own.  What  is  the  reason  I  can't  ?  A  girl 
can  go  in  for  Art,  and  set  up  a  studio  ;  or  she  can  go  to 
Rome,  and  sculp,  and  study  ;  she  can  learn  elocution,  and 
read,  whether  people  want  to  be  read  to  or  not ;  and  all 
that  is  Progress  and  Woman's  Rights ;  why  can't  she  set 
up  a  home  ?  " 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  a  house  is  not  a  home ;  and  the 
beginning  of  a  home  is  just  what  she  waits  for.  Mean- 
while, if  she  has  a  father  and  a  mother,  she  would  not  put 
a  slight  on  their  home,  or  fail  of  her  share  of  the  duty 
in  it." 

"  But  nobody  would  think  I  failed  in  my  duty  if  I  were 
going  to  be  married.  I'm  sure  mamma  would  think  I  was 
doing  it  beautifully.  And  I  never  shall  be  married.  Why 
can't  I  live  something  out  for  myself,  and  have  a  place  of 
my  own  ?  I  have  got  money  enough  to  pay  my  rent,  and 
I  could  do  sewing  in  a  genteel  way,  or  keep  a  school  for 
little  children.  I'd  rather  —  take  in  back  stairs  to  wash," 
she  exclaimed  vehemently,  "  than  wait  round  for  tilings, 
and  be  nothing !  And  I  should  like  to  begin  young,  while 
there  might  be  some  sort  of  fun  in  it.  You'd  like  to 
come  and  take  tea  with  me,  wouldn't  you,  Aunt  Frank  ?  " 

"  If  it  were  all  right  that  you  should  have  separate  teas 
of  your  own." 

"  And  if  I  had  waffles.  Well,  I  should.  I  think,  just 
now,  there's  nothing  I  should  like  so  much  as  a  little  kitchen 
of  my  own,  and  a  pie-board,  and  a  biscuit-cutter,  and  a 
beautiful  baking  oven,  and  a  Japan  tea-pot." 

"  The  pretty  part.  But  brooms,  and  pails,  and  wash- 
tubs,  and  the  back  stairs  ?  " 

"  I  specified  back  stairs  in  the  first  place,  of  my  own 
accord.  I  wouldn't  shirk.  Sometimes  I  think  that  real 


WITH    ALL    ONE'S   MIGHT.  193 

good  old-fashioned  hard  work  is  what  I  do  want.  I  should 
like  to  find  the  right,  honest  thing,  and  do  it,  Aunt 
Frank." 

She  said  it  earnestly,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  believe  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley.  "  But 
perhaps  the  right,  honest  thing,  just  now,  is  to  wait  pa- 
tiently, with  all  your  might." 

"  Now,  that's  good,"  said  Desire,  "  and  cute  of  you, 
too,  that  last  piece  of  a  sentence.  If  you  had  stopped  at 
'•patiently,'1  as  people  generally  do  !  That's  what  exasper- 
ates ;  when  you  want  to  do  something  with  all  your 
might.  It  almost  seems  as  if  I  could,  when  you  put  it  so." 

"  It  is  a  '  stump,'  Luclarion  would  say." 

"  Luclarion  is  a  saint  and  a  philosopher.  I  feel  better," 
said  Desire. 

She  stayed  feeling  better  all  that  afternoon  ;  she  helped 
Sulie  Praile  cut  out  little  panels  from  her  thick  sheet  of 
gray  painting-board,  and  contrived  her  a  small  easel  with 
her  round  lightstand  and  a  book-rest ;  for  Sulie  was  ad- 
vancing in  the  fine  arts,  from  painting  dollies'  paper  faces 
in  cheap  water  colors,  to  copying  bits  of  flowers  and  fern 
and  moss,  with  oils,  on  gray  board ;  and  she  was  doing  it 
very  well,  and  with  exquisite  delight. 

To  wait,  meant  something  to  wait  for  ;  something  com- 
ing by  and  by  ;  that  was  what  comforted  Desire  to-day,  as 
she  walked  home  alone  in  the  sharp,  short,  winter  twi- 
light ;  that,  and  the  being  patient  with  all  one's  might. 
To  be  patient,  is  to  be  also  strong  ;  this  she  saw,  newly ; 
and  Desire  coveted,  most  of  all,  to  be  strong. 

*  '  O 

Something  to  wait  for.  "  He  does  not  cheat,"  said 
Desire,  low  down  in  her  heart,  to  herself.  For  the  child 
had  faith,  though  she  could  not  talk  about  it. 

Something;  but  very  likely  not  the  thing  you  have- 
13 


194  REAL    FOLKS. 

seen,  or  dreamed  of;  something  quite  different,  it  may  be, 
when  it  comes ;  and  it  may  come  by  the  way  of  losing, 
first,  all  that  you  have  been  able  yet,  with  a  vague,  whis- 
pering hope,  to  imagine. 

The  tilings  we  do  not  know  !     The  things  that  are  hap-- 
pening, — the  things  that   are  coming;  rising  up  in  the 
eastward  of  our  lives  below  the  horizon  that  we  can  yet 
see  ;  it  may  be  a  star,  it  may  be  a  cloud  ! 

Desire  Ledwith  could  not  see  that  out  at  Westover,  this 
cheery  winter  night,  it  was  one  of  dear  Miss  Pennington's 
"  Next  Thursdays  ;  "  she  could  not  see  that  the  young 
architect,  living  away  over  there  in  the  hundred-year-old 
house  on  the  side  of  East  Hill,  a  boarder  with  old  Miss 
Arabel  Waite,  had  been  found,  and  appreciated,  and 
drawn  into  their  circle  by  the  Haddens  and  the  Penn ing- 
tons  and  the  Holabirds  and  the  Inglesides ;  and  that 
Rosamond  was  showing  him  the  pleasant  things  in  their 
Westover  life,  —  her  "  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds," 
that  she  had  told  him  of, — that  early  autumn  evening, 
when  they  had  walked  up  Hanley  Street  together. 


SWARMING.  195 

XVI. 

SWARMING. 

P  RING  came  on  early,  with  heavy  rains  and  freshets 
in  many  parts  of  the  country. 

It  was  a  busy  time  at  Z . 

Two  things  had  happened  there  that  were  to  give  Ken- 
neth Kincaid  more  work,  and  would  keep  him  where  he 
was  all  summer. 

Just  before  he  went  to  Z ,  there  had  been  a  great 

fire  at  West  Hill.  All  Mr.  Roger  Marchbanks's  beautiful 
place  was  desolate.  House,  conservatories,  stables,  lovely 
little  vine-covered  rustic  buildings,  exquisitely  tended 
shrubbery,  —  all  swept  over  in  one  night  by  the  red 
flames,  and  left  lying  in  blackness  and  ashes. 

For  the  winter,  Mr.  Marchbanks  had  taken  his  family  to 
Boston  ;  now  he  was  planning  eagerly  to  rebuild.  Ken- 
neth had  made  sketches ;  Mr.  Marchbanks  liked  his  ideas  ; 
they  had  talked  together  from  time  to  time.  Now,  the 
work  was  actually  in  hand,  and  Kenneth  was  busy  with 
drawings  and  specifications. 

Down  at  the  river,  during  the  spring  floods,  a  piece  of 
the  bridge  had  been  carried  away,  and  the  dam  was  broken 
through.  There  were  new  mill  buildings,  too,  going  up, 
and  a  block  of  factory  houses.  All  this  business,  through 
Mr.  Marchbanks  directly  or  indirectly,  fell  also  into  Ken- 
neth's hands. 

He  wrote  blithe  letters  to  Dorris  ;  and  Dorris,  running 
in  and  out  from  her  little  spring  cleanings  that  Hazel  was 
helping  her  with,  told  all  the  letters  over  to  the  Ripwink- 
levs. 


196  REAL   POLKS. 

"  He  says  I  must  come  up  there  in  my  summer  vacation 
and  board  with  his  dear  old  Miss  Waite.  Think  of 
Kentie's  being  able  to  give  me  such  a  treat  as  that !  A 
lane,  with  ferns  and  birches,  and  the  woods,  —  pine 
woods ! — and  a  hill  where  raspberries  grow,  and  the  river ! " 

Mrs.  Ledwith  was  thinking  of  her  summer  plans  at  this 
time,  also.  She  remembered  the  large  four-windowed 
room  looking  out  over  the  meadow,  that  Mrs.  Megilp  and 
Glossy  had  at  Mrs.  Prendible's,  for  twelve  dollars  a  week, 
in  And.  She  could  do  no  better  than  that,  at  country 
boarding,  anywhere  ;  and  Mr.  Ledwith  could  sleep  at  the 
house  in  Shubarton  Place,  getting  his  meals  down  town 
during  the  week,  and  come  up  and  spend  his  Sundays  with 
them.  A  bedroom,  in  addition,  for  six  dollars  more,  would 
be  all  they  would  want. 

The  Ripwinkleys  were  going  up  to  Homesworth  by  and 
by  for  a  little  while,  and  would  take  Sulie  Praile  with 
them.  Sulie  was  ecstatically  happy.  She  had  never  been 
out  of  the  city  in  all  her  life.  She  felt,  she  said,  "  as  if 
she  was  going  to  heaven  without  dying."  Vash  was  to  be 
left  at  Mrs.  Scamp's  with  her  sister. 

Miss  Craydocke  would  be  away  at  the  mountains ;  all 
the  little  life  that  had  gathered  together  in  the  Aspen 
Street  neighborhood,  seemed  about  to  be  broken  up. 

Uncle  Titus  Oldways  never  went  out  of  town,  unless 
on  business.  Rachel  Froke  stayed,  and  kept  his  house ; 
she  sat  in  the  gray  room,  and  thought  over  the  summers 
she  had  had. 

"  Thee  never  loses  anything  out  of  thy  life  that  has  been 
in,"  she  said.  "  Summer  times  are  like  grains  of  musk  ; 
they  keep  their  smell  always,  and  flavor  the  shut-up  places 
they  are  put  away  in." 

For  you  and  me,  reader,  we  are  to  go  to  Z again. 

I  hope  you  like  it. 


SWARMING.  197 

But  before  that,  I  must  tell  you  what  Luclarion  Grapp 
has  done. 

Partly  from  the  principle  of  her  life,  and  partly  from  the 
spirit  of  things  which  she  would  have  caught  at  any  rate, 
from  the  Ripwinkley  home  and  the  Craydocke  "  Beehive," 
—  for  there  is  nothing  truer  than  that  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  like  leaven,  —  I  suppose  she  had  been  secretly 
thinking  for  a  good  while,  that  she  was  having  too  easy  a 
time  here,  in  her  first  floor  kitchen  and  her  garden  bed- 
room ;  that  this  was  not  the  life  meant  for  her  to  live 
right  on,  without  scruple  or  question  ;  and  so  began  in  her 
own  mind  to  expect  some  sort  of  "  stump ;  "  and  even  to 
look  about  for  it. 

"  It  isn't  as  it  was  when  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  a  widow, 
and  poor,  —  that  is,  comparative  ;  and  it  took  all  her  and 
my  contrivance  to  look  after  the  place  and  keep  things 
going,  and  paying,  up  in  Homesworth  ;  there  was  some- 
thing to  buckle  to,  then  ;  but  now,  everything  is  eased  and 
flatted  out,  as  it  were ;  it  makes  me  res'less,  like  a  child 
put  to  bed  in  the  daytime." 

Luclarion  went  down  to  the  North  End  with  Miss  Cray- 
docke, on  errands  of  mercy ;  she  went  in  to  the  new  Mis- 
sion, and  saw  the  heavenly  beauty  of  its  intent,  and  kin- 
dled up  in  her  soul  at  it ;  and  she  came  home,  time  after 
time,  and  had  thoughts  of  her  own  about  these  things,  and 
the  work  in  the  world  there  was  to  do. 

She  had  cleaned  up  and  set  things  going  at  Mrs. 
Scarup's  ;  she  learned  something  in  doing  that,  beyond 
what  she  knew  when  she  set  about  it ;  her  thoughts  began 
to  shape  themselves  to  a  theory ;  and  the  theory  took  to 
itself  a  text  and  a  confirmation  and  a  command. 

"  Go  down  and  be  a  neighbor  to  them  that  have  fallen 
among  thieves." 


198  REAL    POLKS. 

Luclarion  came  to  a  resolution  in  this  time  of  May,  when 
everybody  was  making  plans  and  the  spring-cleaning  was 
all  done. 

She  came  to  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  one  morning,  when  she 
was  folding  away  winter  clothes,  and  pinning  them  up  in 
newspapers,  with  camphor-gum  ;  and  she  said  to  her,  with- 
out a  bit  of  preface,  —  Luclarion  hated  prefaces,  — 

"  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  Fin  going  to  swarm  !  " 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  looked  up  in  utter  surprise  ;  what  else 
could  she  do  ? 

"  Of  course  'm,  when  you  set  up  a  Beehive,  you  must 
have  expected  it ;  it's  the  natural  way  of  things ;  they 
ain't  good  for  much  unless  they  do.  I've  thought  it  all 
over ;  I'll  stay  and  see  you  all  off,  first,  if  you  want  me  to, 
and  then  —  I'll  swarm/'  . 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  assenting  in  full  faith, 
beforehand  ;  for  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  if  I  need  now  to  tell 
you  of  it,  was  not  an  ordinary  woman,  and  did  not  take 
things  in  an  ordinary  selfish  way,  but  grasped  right  hold 
of  the  inward  right  and  truth  of  them,  and  believed  in  it ; 
sometimes  before  she  could  quite  see  it ;  and  she  never  had 
any  doubt  of  Luclarion  Grapp.  "  Well !  And  now  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"  You  see,"  said  Luclarion,  sitting  down  in  a  chair  by 
the  window,  as  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  suspended  her  occupation 
and  took  one  by  the  bedside,  "there's  places  in  this 
town  that  folks  leave  and  give  up.  As  the  Lord  might 
have  left  and  give  up  the  world,  because  there  was  dirt 
and  wickedness  in  it ;  only  He  didn't.  There's  places 
where  it  ain't  genteel,  nor  yet  respectable,  to  live  ;  and  so 
those  places  grow  more  disrespectable  and  miserable  every 
day.  They're  left  to  themselves.  What  I  think  is,  they 
hadn't  ought  to  be.  There's  one  clean  spot  down  there, 


"MRS.  RIL>n  INKLM  ,   I'M  li'MMJ  TO  SVVAKM !  "     See  p.  198. 


SWARMING.  199 

now,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  worst  dirt.  And  it  ain't  bad 
to  live  in.  That's  started.  Now,  what  I  think  is,  that 
somebody  ought  to  start  another,  even  if  its  only  a  little  one. 
Somebody  ought  to  just  go  there  and  live,  and  show  'em 
how,  just  as  I  took  and  showed  Mrs.  Scarup,  and  she's 
been  living  ever  since,  instead  of  scratching  along.  '  If 
some  of  them  folks  had  a  clean,  decent  neighbor  to  go  to 
see,  —  to  drink  tea  with,  say,  —  and  was  to  catch  an  idea 
of  her  fixings  and  doings,  why,  I  believe  there'd  be  more 
of  'em,  —  cleaned  up,  you  know.  They'd  get  some  kind, 
of  an  ambition  and  a  hope.  Tain't  enough  for  ladies  — 
though  I  bless  'em  in  my  soul  for  what  I've  seen  'em  do 

—  to  come  down  there  of  a  Fridays,  and  teach  and  talk 
awhile,  and  then  go  home  to  Summit  Street  and  Republic 
Avenue,  and  take  up  their  life  again  where  they  left  it  off, 
that  is  just  as  different  as   heaven   is  from  'tother  place  ; 
somebody's  got  to  come  right  down  out  of  heaven,  and 
bring  the  life  in,  and  live  it  amongst  them  miserable  folks, 
as  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  came  and  did !     And  it's  borne 
in  upon  me,  strong  and  clear,  that  that's  what's  got  to  be 
before  all's  righted.     And  so  —  for  a  little  piece  of  it,  and 
a  little  individual  stump  —  I'm  going  to  swarm,  and  settle, 
and  see  what'll  come." 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  looking  very  intently  at  Lucla- 
rion.  Her  breath  went  and  came  hurriedly,  and  her  face 
turned  pale  with  the  grand  surprise  of  such  a  thought, 
such  a  plan  and  purpose,  so  simply  and  suddenly  declared. 
Her  eves  were  large  and  moist  with  feeling. 

••'  ~ 

"  Do  you  know,  Luclarion,"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  "  do 
you  realize  what  this  is  that  you  are  thinking  of;  what  a 
step  it  would  be  to  take,  —  what  a  work  it  would  be  to 
even  hope  to  begin  to  do  ?  Do  you  know  how  strange  it  is, 

—  how  almost  impracticable,  —  that  it  is  not  even  safe  ?  " 

x 


200  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  'Twasn't  safe  for  Him  —  when  He  came  into  the 
world,"  Luclarion  answered. 

"  Not  to  say  I  think  there's  any  comparison,"  she  began 
again,  presently,  "  or  that  I  believe  there's  anything  to  be 
really  scared  of,  —  except  dirt ;  and  you  can  clean  a  place 
round  you,  as  them  Mission  people  have  done.  Why, 
there  ain't  a  house  in  Boston  nicer,  or  sweeter,  or  airier 
even,  than  that  one  down  in  Arctic  Street,  with  beautiful 
parlors  and  bedrooms,  and  great  clean  galleries  leading 
round,  and  skylighted,  —  sky  lighted !  for  you  see  the 
blue  heaven  is  above  all,  and  you  can  let  the  skylight  in, 
without  any  corruption  coming  in  with  it ;  and  if  twenty 
people  can  do  that  much,  or  a  hundred,  —  one  can  do 
something.  'Taint  much,  either,  to  undertake  ;  only  to 
be  willing  to  go  there,  and  make  a  clean  place  for  your- 
self, and  a  home  ;  and  live  there,  instead  of  somewheres 
else  that's  ready  made  ;  and  let  it  spread.  And  you  know 
I've  always  looked  forrud  to  some  kind  of  a  house-keep 
of  my  own,  finally.'' 

"  But,  Luclarion,  I  don't  understand  !  All  alone  ?  And 
you  couldn't  use  a  whole  house,  you  know.  Your  neigh- 
bors would  be  inmates.  Why,  it  seems  to  me  perfectly 
crazy !  " 

"  Now,  ma'am,  did  you  ever  know  me  to  go  off  on  a 
tangent,  without  some  sort  of  a  string  to  hold  on  to  ?  I 
ain't  goin'  to  swarm  all  alone  !  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  Though  if  I  couldn't  swarm,  and  the  thing  was  to 
be  done,  I  say  I'd  try  it.  But  Savira  Golding  is  going  to 
be  married  to  Sam  Gallilee,  next  month ;  and  he's  a  steve- 
dore, and  his  work  is  down  round  the  wharves ;  he's  class- 
leader  in  our  church,  and  a  first-rate,  right-minded  man,  or 
else  Savira  wouldn't  have  him  ;  for  if  Savira  ain't  a  clear 
Christian,  and  a  doing  woman,  there  ain't  one  this  side  of 


SWARMING.  201 

Paradise.  Now,  you  see,  Sam  Gallilee  makes  money  ;  he 
runs  a  gang  of  three  hundred  men.  He  can  afford  a  good 
house,  and  a  whole  one,  if  he  wants  ;  but  he's  going  in  for 
a  big  one,  and  neighbors.  They  mean  to  live  nice,  — 
he  and  Savira  ;  and  she  has  pretty,  tasty  ways  ;  there'll 
be  white  curtains,  and  plants  blooming  in  her  windows, 
you  may  make  sure  ;  she's  always  had  'em  in  that  little 
up-stairs  dress-making  room  of  hers  ;  and  boxes  of  mignon- 
ette and  petunias  on  the  ledges  ;  and  birds  singing  in  a 
great  summer  cage  swung  out  against  the  wall.  She's  one 
of  the  kind  that  reaches  out,  and  can't  be  kept  in  ;  and 
she  knows  her  gifts,  and  is  willing  to  go  and  let  her  light 
shine  where  it  will  help  others,  and  so  glorify  ;  and  Sam, 
he's  willing  too,  and  sees  the  beauty  of  it.  And  so,  — 
well,  that's  the  swarm." 

"  And  the  '  little  round  Godamighty  in  the  middle  of 
it,'  "  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  her  face  all  bright  and  her 
eyes  full  of  tears. 


Then  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  told  her  Miss  Craydocke's  story. 

"  Well,"  said  Luclarion,  "  there's  something  dear  and 
right-to-the-spot  about  it  ;  but  it  does  sound  singular  ;  and 
it  certainly  ain't  a  thing  to  say  careless." 

Desire  Ledwith  grew  bright  and  excited  as  the  summer 
came  on,  and  the  time  drew  near  for  going  to  Z  -  .  She 
could  not  help  being  glad  ;  she  did  not  stop  to  ask  why  ; 
summer-time  was  reason  enough,  and  after  the  weariness 
of  the  winter,  the  thought  of  Z  -  and  the  woods  and 
the  river,  and  sweet  evenings  and  mornings,  and  gardens 
and  orchards,  and  road-side  grass,  was  lovely  to  her. 

"  It  is  so  pleasant  up  there  !  "  she  would  keep  saying  to 
Dorris  ;  and  somehow  she  said  it  to  Dorris  oftener  than  to 
anybody  else. 


202  ,  REAL    FOLKS. 

There  was  something  fitful  and  impetuous  in  her  little 
outbursts  of  satisfaction  ;  they  noticed  it  in  her ;  the  elder 
ones  among  them  noticed  it  with  a  touch  of  anxiety  for 
her. 

Miss  Craydocke,  especially,  read  the  signs,  matching 
them  with  something  that  she  remembered  far  back  in  the 
life  that  had  closed  so  peacefully,  with  white  hairs  and 
years  of  a  serene  content  and  patience,  over  all  unrest  and 
disappointment,  for  herself.  She  was  sorry  for  this  young 
girl,  for  whom  she  thought  she  saw  an  unfulfilled  dream 
of  living  that  should  go  by  her  like  some  bright  cloud,  just 
near  enough  to  turn  into  a  baptism  of  tears. 

She  asked  Desire,  one  day,  if  she  would  not  like  to  go 
with  her,  this  summer,  to  the  mountains. 

Desire  put  by  the  suggestion  hastily. 

"  O,  no,  thank  you,  Miss  Craydocke,  I  must  stay  with 
mamma  and  Helena.  And  besides,"  she  added,  with  the 
strict,  full  truth  she  always  demanded  of  herself,  "  I  want 
to  go  to  Z ." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Craydocke. 

There  was  something  tender,  like  a  shade  of  pity,  in  her 
tone. 

"  But  you  would  enjoy  the  mountains.  They  are  full 
of  strength  and  rest.  One  hardly  understands  the  good 
the  hills  do  one.  David  did,  looking  out  into  them  from 

7  O 

Jerusalem.     '  I  will  look  to  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh 
my  strength.' ' 

"  Some  time,"  said  Desire.  "  Some  time  I  shall  need 
the  hills,  and  —  be  ready  for  them.  But  this  summer  — 
I  want  a  good,  gay,  young  time.  I  don't  know  why,  ex- 
cept that  I  shall  be  just  eighteen  this  year,  and  it  seems 
as  if,  after  that,  I  was  going  to  be  old.  And  I  want  to  be 
with  people  I  know.  I  can  be  gay  in  the  country  ;  there 


SWARMING.  203 

is  something  to  be  gay  about.  But  I  can't  dress  and 
dance  in  the  city.  That  is  all  gas-light  and  get-up." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Craydocke,  slowly,  "  that  our 
faces  are  all  set  in  the  way  we  are  to  go.  Even  if  it 
is — "  She  stopped.  She  was  thinking  of  one  whose  face 
had  been  set  to  go  to  Jerusalem.  Her  own  words  had  led 
her  to  something  she  had  not  foreseen  when  she  began. 

Nothing  of  such  suggestion  came  to  Desire.  She  was 
in  one  of  her  rare  moods  of  good  cheer. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  heedlessly.  And  then,  taking 
up  a  thought  of  her  own  suddenly,  —  "  Miss  Craydocke  I 
Don't  you  think  people  almost  always  live  out  their  names? 
There's  Sin  Scherman ;  there'll  always  be  a  little  bit  of 
mischief  and  original  naughtiness  in  her,  —  with  the  harm 
taken  out  of  it ;  and  there's  Rosamond  Holabird,  —  they 
couldn't  have  called  her  anything  better,  if  they'd  waited 
for  her  to  grow  up  ;  and  Barb  was  sharp  ;  and  our  little 
Hazel  is  witchy  and  sweet  and  wild-woodsy ;  and  Lucla- 
rion,  —  isn't  that  shiny  and  trumpety,  and  doesn't  she  do 
it  ?  And  then  —  there's  me.  I  shall  always  be  stiff  and 
hard  and  unsatisfied,  except  in  little  bits  of  summer  times 
that  won't  come  often.  They  might  as  well  have  chris- 
tened me  Anxiety.  I  wonder  why  they  didn't." 

"  That  would  have  been  very  different.  There  is  a 
nobleness  in  Desire.  You  will  overlive  the  restless  part,'* 
said  Miss  Craydocke. 

"  Was  there  ever  anything  restless  in  your  life,  Miss 
Craydocke  ?  And  how  long  did  it  take  to  overlive  it  ?  It 
doesn't  seem  as  if  you  had  ever  stubbed  your  foot  against 
anything;  and  I'm  always  stubbing." 

"  My  dear,  I  have  stubbed  along  through  fifty-six  years ; 
and  the  years  had  all  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in 
them.  There  were  chances,  —  don't  you  think  so?" 


204  REAL    FOLKS. 

"It  looks  easy  to  be  old  after  it  is  done,"  said  Desire. 
"  Easy  and  comfortable.  But  to  be  eighteen,  and  to  think 
of  having  to  go  on  to  be  fifty-six  ;  I  beg  your  pardon,  — 
but  I  wish  it  was  over  !  " 

And  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  heavy  with  the  days  that 
were  to  be. 

"  You  are  not  to  take  it  all  at  once,  you  know,"  said 
Miss  Craydocke. 

"  But  I  do,  every  now  and  then.  I  can't  help  it.  I  am 
sure  it  is  the  name.  If  they  had  called  me  '  Hapsie,'  like 
you,  I  should  have  gone  along  jolly,  as  you  do,  and  not 
minded.  You  see  you  have  to  hear  it  all  the  time  ;  and 
it  tunes  you  up  to  its  own  key.  You  can't  feel  like  a 
Dolly,  or  a  Daisy,  when  everybody  says  —  De-sire  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  be  called  '  Hapsie,'  "  said 
Miss  Craydocke.  "  Somebody  who  liked  me  took  it  up, 
and  it  seemed  to  get  fitted  on.  But  that  wasn't  when  I 
was  young." 

"  What  was  it,  then  ?  "  asked  Desire,  with  a  movement 
of  interest. 

"  Keren-happuch,"  said  Miss  Craydocke,  meekly.  "  My 
father  named  me,  and  he  always  called  me  so,  —  the  whole 
of  it.  He  was  a  severe,  Old-Testament  man,  and  his 
name  was  Job." 

Desire  was  more  than  half  right,  after  all.  There  was 
a  good  deal  of  Miss  Craydocke's  story  hinted  in  those  few 
words  and  those  two  ancient  names. 

"  But  I  turned  into  '  Miss  Craydocke  '  pretty  soon,  and 
settled  down.  I  suppose  it  was  very  natural  that  I  should," 
said  the  sweet  old  maid,  serenely. 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  205 

XVII. 

QUESTIONS    AND    ANSWERS. 

rTlHE  evening  train  came  in  through  the  little  bend  in  the 
-•-  edge  of  the  woods,  and  across  the  bridge  over  the 
pretty  rapids,  and  slid  to  its  stopping-place  under  the  high 
arches  of  the  other  bridge  that  connected  the  main  street 
of  Z with  its  continuation  through  "  And." 

There  were  lights  twinkling  in  the  shops,  where  they 
were  making  change,  and  weighing  out  tea  and  sugar,  and 
measuring  calico,  although  outside  it  was  not  yet  quite 
dark. 

The  train  was  half  an  hour  late ;  there  had  been  a  stop- 
page at  some  draw  or  crossing  near  the  city. 

Mr.  Prendible  was  there,  to  see  if  his  lodgers  were  come, 
and  to  get  his  evening  paper  ;  the  platform  was  full  of  peo-  ' 

pie.  Old  Z acquaintances,  many  of  them,  whom  Desire 

and  her  mother  were  pleased,  and  Helena  excited  to  see. 

"  There's  Kenneth  Kincaid  !  "  she  exclaimed,  quite 
loudly,  pulling  Desire's  sleeve. 

"Hush!"  said  Desire,  twitching  away.  "How  can 
you,  Helena  ?  " 

"  He's  coming,  —  he  heard  me  !  "  cried  Helena,  utterly 
impenitent. 

"  I  should  think  he  might !  "  And  Desire  walked  off  a 
little,  to  look  among  the  trunks  that  were  being  tumbled 
from  the  baggage  car. 

She  had  seen  him  all  the  time  ;  he  had  been  speaking  to 
Ruth  Holabird,  and  helping  her  up  the  steps  with  her  par- 
cels. Mr.  Holabird  was  there  with  the  little  Westover 


206  REAL    FOLKS. 

carryall  that  they  kept  now  ;  and  Kenneth  put  her  in,  and 
then  turned  round  in  time  to  hear  Helena's  exclamation 
and  to  come  down  again. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  I'm  very  glad  you  are  come,"  he 
said,  cordially. 

Well ;  he  might  have  said  it  to  anybody.  Again,  well ; 
it  was  enough  to  say  to  anybody.  Why  should  Desire 
feel  cross  ? 

He  took  Helena's  bag ;  she  had  a  budget  beside  ;  Mr. 
Prendible  relieved  Mrs.  Ledwith  ;  Desire  held  on  valiantly 
to  her  own  things.  Kenneth  walked  over  the  bridge  with 
them,  and  down  the  street  to  Mr.  Prendible's  door ;  there 
he  bade  them  good-by  and  left  them. 

It  was  nice  to  be  in  Z ;  it  was  very  sweet  here  un- 
der the  blossoming  elms  and  locusts ;  it  was  nice  to  see 
Kenneth  Kincaid  again,  and  to  think  that  Dorris  was  com- 
ing by  and  by,  and  that  the  lanes  were  green  and  full  of 
ferns  and  vines,  and  that  there  was  to  be  a  whole  long 
•summer ;  but  there  were  so  many  people  down  there  on 
the  platform,  —  there  was  such  a  muss  always  ;  Ruth  Hola- 
bird  was  a  dear  little  thing,  but  there  were  always  so  many 
Ruths  about !  and  there  was  only  one  cross,  stiff,  odd,  un- 
comfortable Desire  ! 

But  the  very  next  night  Kenneth  came  down  and  stayed 
an  hour ;  there  was  a  new  moon  glistening  through  the 
delicate  elm-tips,  and  they  sat  out  on  the  piazza  and 
breathed  in  such  an  air  as  they  had  not  had  in  their  nos- 
trils for  months  and  months. 

The  faint,  tender  light  from  the  golden  west  in  which 
the  new  moon  lay,  showed  the  roof  and  tower  of  the  little 
church,  Kenneth's  first  beautiful  work  ;  and  Kenneth  told 
them  how  pleasant  it  was  up  at  Miss  Arabel's,  and  of 
the  tame  squirrels  that  he  fed  at  his  window,  and  of  the 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  207 

shady  pasture-path  that  led  away  over  the  brook  from  the 
very  door,  and  up  among  pines  and  into  little  still  nooks 
where  dry  rnossy  turf  and  warm  gray  rocks  were  sheltered 
in  by  scraggy  cedars  and  lisping  birches,  so  that  they  were 
like  field-parlors  opening  in  and  out  from  each  other  with 
all  sorts  of  little  winding  and  climbing  passages,  between 
clumps  of  bayberry  bushes  and  tall  ferns  ;  and  that  the 

girls   from  Z and  Westover   made  morning    picnics 

there,  since  Lucilla  Waters  had  grown  intimate  with  Delia 
Waite  and  found  it  out ;  and  that  Delia  Waite  and  even 
Miss  Arabel  carried  their  dressmaking  down  there  some- 
times in  a  big  white  basket,  and  stayed  all  day  under  the 
trees.  They  had  never  used  to  do  this  ;  they  had  stayed  in 
the  old  back  sitting  room  with  all  the  litter  round,  and 
never  thought  of  it  till  those  girls  had  come  and  showed 

O  O 

them  how. 

"  I  think  there  is  the  best  and  sweetest  neighborliness 

and  most  beautiful  living  here  in  Z ,  that  I  ever  knew 

in  any  place,"  said  Kenneth  Kincaid ;  ';  except  that  little 
piece  of  the  same  thing  in  Aspen  Street." 

Kenneth  had  found  out  how  Rosamond  Holabird  recog- 
nized Aspen  Street  as  a  piece  of  her  world. 

Desire  hated,  as  he  spoke,  her  spitefulness  last  night ; 
what  she  had  said  to  herself  of  "  so  many  Ruths ;  "  why 
could  not  she  not  be  pleased  to  come  into  this  beautiful  liv- 
ing and  make  a  little  part  of  it  ? 

She  was  pleased  ;  she  would  be  ;  she  found  it  very  easy 
when  Kenneth  said  to  her  in  that  frank  intimate  way,  — 
"  I  wish  you  and  your  mother  would  come  over  and  see 
what  Dorris  will  want,  and  help  me  a  little  about  that  room 
of  hers.  I  told  Miss  Waite  not  to  bother ;  just  to  let  the 
old  things  stand,  —  I  knew  Dorris  would  like  them,  —  and 

O  ' 

anything  else  I  would  get  for  her  myself.     I   mean  Dolly 


208  REAL   FOLKS. 

shall  take  a  long  vacation  this  year  ;  from  June  right 
through  to  September  ;  and  its  *  no  end  of  jolly,'  as  those 
English  fellows  say,  that  you  have  come  too  !  " 

Kenneth  Kincaid  was  fresher  and  pleasanter  and  younger 
himself,  than  Desire  had  ever  seen  him  before ;  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  hard  way  of  looking  at  the  world  ; 
he  had  found  something  so  undeniably  good  in  it.  I  am 
afraid  Desire  had  rather  liked  him  for  his  carping,  which 
was  what  he  least  of  all  deserved  to  be  liked  for.  It  showed 
how  high  and  pure  his  demands  were  ;  but  his  praise  and 
admissions  were  better  ;  it  is  always  better  to  discern  good 
than  to  fret  at  the  evil. 

"  I  shall  see  you  every  day,"  he  said,  when  he  shook 
hands  at  parting ;  "  and  Helena,  if  you  want  a  squirrel  to 
keep  in  your  pocket  next  winter,  I'll  begin  training  one 
for  you  at  once." 

He  had  taken  them  right  to  himself,  as  if  they  belonged 
to  him  ;  he  spoke  as  if  he  were  very  glad  that  he  should 
see  them  every  day. 

Desire  whistled  over  her  unpacking  ;  she  could  not  sing, 
but  she  could  whistle  like  a  blackbird.  When  her  father 
came  up  on  Saturday  night,  he  said  that  her  eyes  were 
brighter  and  her  cheeks  were  rounder,  for  the  country 
air ;  she  would  take  to  growing  pretty  instead  of  strong- 
minded,  if  she  didn't  look  out. 

Kenneth  came  round  on  Monday,  after  tea,  to  ask  them 
to  go  over  to  Miss  Waite's  and  make  acquaintance. 

"  For  yo'u  see,"  he  said,  "  you  will  have  to  be  very  in- 
timate there,  and  it  is  time  to  begin.  It  will  take  one  call 
to  be  introduced,  and  another,  at  least,  to  get  up-stairs  and 
see  that  beautiful  breezy  old  room  that  can't  be  lived  in  in 
winter,  but  is  to  be  a  delicious  sort  of  camping-out  for 
Dolly,  all  summer.  It  is  all  windows  and  squirrel-holes  and 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  209 

doors  that  wont  shut.  Everything  comes  in  but  the  rain ; 
but  the  roof  is  tight  on  that  corner.  Even  the  woodbine  has 
got  tossed  in  through  a  broken  upper  pane,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  it  mended  on  any  account.  There  are  swallows' 
nests  in  the  chimneys,  and  wrens  under  the  gable,  and 
humming-birds  in  the  honeysuckle.  When  Dolly  gets 
there,  it  will  be  perfect.  It  just  wants  her  to  take  it  all 
right  into  her  heart  and  make  one  piece  of  it.  They  don't 
know,  —  the  birds  and  the  squirrels,  —  it  takes  the  hu- 
man. There  has  to  be  an  Adam  in  every  garden  oF  Eden." 

Kenneth  really  chattered,  from  pure  content  and  de- 
light. ^ 

It  did  not  take  two  visits  to  get  up-stairs.  Miss  Arabel 
met  them  heartily.  She  had  been  a  shy,  timid  old  lady, 
from  long  neglect  and  humble  living  ;  but  lately  she  had 
"  come  out  in  society,"  Delia  said.  Society  had  come 
after  her,  and  convinced  her  that  she  could  make  good 
times  for  it. 

She  brought  out  currant  wine  and  gave  them,  the  first 
thing  ;  and  when  Kenneth  told  her  that  they  were  his  and 
Dorris's  friends,  and  were  coming  next  week  to  see  about 
getting  ready  for  her,  she  took  them  right  round  through 
all  four  of  the  ground  rooms,  to  the  queer  corner  staircase, 
and  up  into  the  "  long  west  chamber,"  to  show  them  what 
a  rackety  old  place  it  was,  and  to  see  whether  they  sup- 
posed it  could  be  made  fit. 

"  Why  it's  like  the  Romance  of  the  Forest ! "  said 
Helena,  delighted.  "  I  wish  we  had  come  here.  Don't 
you  have  ghosts,  or  robbers,  or  something,  up  and  down 
those  stairs,  Miss  Waite  ?  "  For  she  had  spied  a  door  that 
led  directly  out  of  the  room,  from  beside  the  chimney,  up 
into  the  rambling  old  garret,  smelling  of  pine  boards  and. 
penny-royal. 

14 


210  REAL  FOLKS. 

"  No  ;  nothing  but  squirrels  and  bees,  and  sometimes  a 
bat,"  answered  Miss  Arabel. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  want  fixing.  If  you  fix  it,  you  will 
spoil  it.  I  shall  come  here  and  sleep  with  Dorris,  —  see  if 
I  don't." 

The  floor  was  bare,  painted  a  dark,  marbled  gray.  In 
the  middle  was  a  great  braided  rug,  of  blue  and  scai'let 
and  black.  The  walls  were  pale  gray,  with  a  queer,  sten- 
cilled scroll-and-dash  border  of  vermilion  and  black  paint. 

There  was  an  old,  high  bedstead,  with  carved  frame  and 
posts,  bare  of  drapery  ;  an  antiquated  chest  of  drawers  ; 
and  a  half-circular  table  with  tall,  plain,  narrow  legs,  be- 
tween two  of  the  windows.  There  was  a  corner  cupboard, 
and  a  cupboard  over  the  chimney.  The  doors  of  these, 
and  the  high  wainscot  around  the  room,  were  stained  in 
old-fashioned  "  imitation  mahogany,"  very  streaky  and  red. 
The  wainscot  was  so  heavily  finished  that  the  edge  running 
around  the  room  might  answer  for  a  shelf. 

"  Just  curtains,  and  toilet  covers,  and  a  little  low  rock- 
ing chair,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith.  "  That  is  all  you  want." 

"  But  the  windows  are  so  high,"  suggested  Desire.  "  A 
low  chair  would  bury  her  up,  away  from  all  the  pleasant- 
ness. I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  have,  Mr.  Kincaid.  A 
kind  of  dais,  right  across  that  corner,  to  take  in  two  win- 
dows f  with  a  carpet  on  it,  and  a  chair,  and  a  little  table." 

"  Just  the  thing  !  "  said  Kenneth.  "  That  is  what  I 
wanted  you  for,  Miss  Desire,"  he  said  in  a  pleased,  gentle 
way,  lowering  his  tone  to  her  especial  hearing,  as  he  stood 
beside  her  in  the  window. 

And  Desire  was  very  happy  to  have  thought  of  it. 

Helena  was  spurred  by  emulation  to  suggest  something. 

"  I'd  have  a  —  hammock  —  somewhere,"  she  said. 

"  Good,"  said  Kenneth.  "  That  shall  be  out  under  the 
great  butternut." 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  211 

The  great  butternut  walled  in  one  of  the  windows  with 
a  wilderness  of  green,  and  the  squirrels  ran  chattering  up 
and  down  the  brown  branches,  and  peeping  in  all  day.  In 
the  autumn,  when  the  nuts  were  ripe,  they  would  be 
scrambling  over  the  roof,  and  in  under  the  eaves,  to  hide 
their  stores  in  the  garret,  Miss  Arabel  told  them. 

"  Why  doesn't  everbody  have  an  old  house,  and  let  the 
squirrels  in  ?  "  cried  Helena,  in  a  rapture. 

In  ten  days  more,  —  the  first  week  of  June,  —  Dorris 
came. 

Well,  —  "  That  let  in  all  the  rest,"  Helena  said,  and 
Desire,  may  be,  thought.  "  We  shan't  have  it  to  our- 
selves anv  more." 

The  girls  could  all  come  down  and  call  on  Dorris  Kin- 
caid,  and  they  did. 

But  Desire  and  Helena  had  the  first  of  it ;  nobody  else 
went  right  up  into  her  room ;  nobody  else  helped  her  un- 
pack and  settle.  And  she  was  so  delighted  with  all  that 
they  had  done  for  her. 

The  dais  was  large  enough  for  two  or  three  to  sit  upon 
at  once,  and  it  was  covered  with  green  carpet  of  a  small, 
mossy  pattern,  and  the  window  was  open  into  the  butter- 
nut on  one  side,  and  into  the  honeysuckle  on  the  other, 
and  it  was  really  a  bower. 

"  I  shall  live  ten  hours  in  one,"  said  Dorris. 

"  And  you'll  let  me  come  and  sleep  with  you  some 
night,  and  hear  the  bats,"  said  Helena. 

The  Ledwiths  made  a  good  link ;  they  had  known  the 
Kincaids  so  well ;  if  it  had  been  only  Dorris,  alone,  with 
her  brother  there,  the  Westover  girls  might  have  been  shy 
of  coming  often.  Since  Kenneth  had  been  at  Miss  Waite's, 
they  had  already  grown  a  little  less  free  of  the  beautiful 
woods  that  they  had  just  found  out  and  begun  fairly  to 
enjoy  last  autumn. 


212  REAL    FOLKS. 

But  the  Ledwiths  made  a  strong  party  ;  and  they  lived 
close  by ;  there  were  plans  continually. 

Since  Leslie  Goldthwaite  and  Barbara  Holabird  were 
married  and  gone,  and  the  Roger  Marchbankses  were 
burned  out,  and  had  been  living  in  the  city  and  travelling, 
the  Hobarts  and  the  Haddens  and  Ruth  and  Rosamond 
and  Pen  Pennington  had  kept  less  to  their  immediate 
Westover  neighborhood  than  ever  ;  and  had  come  down  to 
Lucilla's,  and  to  Maddy  Freeman's,  and  the  Inglesides,  as 
often  as  they  had  induced  them  to  go  up  to  the  Hill. 

Maud  Marchbanks  and  the  Hendees  were  civil  and 
neighborly  enough  at  home,  but  they  did  not  care  to 
"  ramify."  So  it  came  to  pass  that  they  were  left  a  good 
deal  to  themselves.  Olivia  and  Adelaide,  when  they  came 
up  to  Westover,  to  their  uncle's,  wondered  "  that  papa 
cared  to  build  again  ;  there  really  wasn't  anything  to  come 
for ;  West  Hill  was  entirely  changed." 

So  it  was  ;  and  a  very  good  thing. 

I  came  across  the  other  dav,  reading  over  Mr.  Kino-s- 

«/    *  ~ 

ley's  "  Two  Years  Ago,"  a  time  word  as  to  social  needs 
in  England,  that  reminded  me  of  this  that  the  Hola- 
birds  and  the  Penningtons  and  the  Inglesides  have  been 
doing,  half  unconsciously,  led  on  from  "  next  "  to  next,  in 

Z . 

Mr.  Kingsley,  after  describing  a  Miss  Heale,  and  others 
of  her  class,  —  the  middle  class,  with  no  high  social  oppor- 
tunities, and  with  time  upon  their  hands,  wasted  often  in 
false  dreams  of  life  and  unsatisfied  expectations,  "  bewil- 
dering heart  and  brain  with  novels,"  for  want  of  a  nobler 
companionship,  says  this  :  "Till  in  country  villages,  the  la- 
dies who  interest  themselves  about  the  poor  will  recollect 
that  the  farmers'  and  tradesmens'  daughters  are  just  as  much 
in  want  of  their  influence  as  the  charity  children,  and  will 


QUESTIONS   AND    ANSWERS.  213 

yield  a  far  richer  return  for  their  labor,  so  long  will  Eng- 
land be  full  of  Miss  Heales." 

If  a  kindly  influence  and  fellowship  are  the  duty  of  the 
aristocratic  girls  of  England  toward  their  "  next,"  below, 
how  far  more  false  are  American  girls  to  the  spirit  of  their 
country,  and  the  blessed  opportunities  of  republican  sym- 
pathies and  equalities,  when  they  try  to  draw  invisible 
lines  between  themselves  and  those  whose  outer  station 
differs  by  but  so  little,  and  whose  hearts  and  minds,  under 
the  like  culture  with  their  own,  crave,  just  as  they  do,  the 
best  that  human  intercourse  can  give.  Social  science 
has  something  to  do,  before  —  or  at  least  simultaneously 
with  —  reaching  down  to  the  depths  where  all  the  wrongs 
and  blunders  and  mismanagements  of  life  have  precipitated 
their  foul  residuum.  A  master  of  one  of  our  public 
schools,  speaking  of  the  undue  culture  of  the  brain  and 
imagination,  in  proportion  to  the  opportunities  offered  so- 
cially for  living  out  ideas  thus  crudely  gathered,  said 
that  his  brightest  girls  were  the  ones  who  in  after  years, 
impatient  of  the  little  life  gave  them  to  satisfy  the  capaci- 
ties and  demands  aroused  and  developed  during  the  brief 
period  of  school  life,  and  fed  afterwards  by  their  own  ill- 
judged  and  ill-regulated  reading,  were  found  fallen  into 
lives  of  vice.  Have  our  women,  old  or  young,  who  make 
and  circumscribe  the  opportunities  of  social  intercourse  and 
enjoyment,  nothing  to  search  out  here,  and  help,  as  well, 
or  as  soon  as,  to  get  their  names  put  on  committee  lists,  and 
manage  these  public  schools  themselves,  which  educate 
and  stimulate  up  to  the  point  of  possible  fierce  temptation, 
and  then  have  nothing  more  that  they  can  do  ? 

It  was  a  good  thing  for  Desire  Ledwith  to  grow  inti- 
mate, as  she  did,  with  Rosamond  Holabird.  There  were 
identical  points  of  character  between  the  two.  They  were 
both  so  real. 


214  REAL   FOLKS. 

"  You  don't  want  to  play  anything,"  Barbara  Holabird 
had  said  to  Rosamond  once,  in  some  little  discussion  of 
social  appearances  and  pretensions.  "  And  that's  the 
beauty  of  you  !  " 

It  was  the  beauty  of  Desire  Ledwith  also;  only,  with 
Rosamond,  her  ambitions  had  clothed  themselves  with  a 
grace  and  delicateness  that  would  have  their  own  perfect 
and  thorough  as  far  as  it  went;  and  with  Desire,  the  same 
demands  of  true  living  had  chafed  into  an  impatience  with 
shams  and  a  blunt  disregard  of  and  resistance  to  all  con- 
ventionalisms. 

"  You  are  a  good  deal  alike,  you  two,"  Kenneth  Kin- 
caid  said  to  them  one  day,  in  a  talk  they  all  three  hap- 
pened to  have  together. 

And  he  had  told  Rosamond  afterward  that  there  was 
';  something  grand  in  Desire  Ledwith  ;  only  grand  things 
almost  always  have  to  grow  with  struggles." 

Rosamond  had  told  this  again  to  Desire. 

It  was  not  much  wonder  that  she  began  to  be  happier ; 
to  have  a  hidden  comfort  of  feeling  that  perhaps  the 
"  waiting  with  all  her  might "  was  nearly  over,  and  the 
"  by  and  by  "  was  blossoming  for  her,  though  the  green 
leaves  of  her  own  shy  sternness  with  herself  folded  close 
down  about  the  sweetening  place,  and  she  never  parted 
them  aside  to  see  where  the  fragrance  came  from. 

O 

They  were  going  to  have  a  grand,  large,  beautiful  sup- 
per party  in  the  woods. 

Mrs.  Holabird  and  Mrs.  Hobart  were  the  matrons,  and 
gave  out  the  invitations. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  possibly  spend  a  Tuesday  after- 
noon with  a  little  '  t,'  "  said  Mrs.  Lewis  Marchbanks, 
laughing,  and  tossing  down  poor,  dear,  good  Mrs.  Hobart's 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  215 

note  upon  her  table.  "  It  is  rather  more  than  is  to  be  ex- 
pected ! " 

"  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Hautayne  are  here,  and  Dakie 
Thayne  is  home  from  West  Point.  It  will  be  rather  a 
nice  party." 

"  The  Holabirds  seem  to  have  got  everything  into  their 
own  hands,"  said  Mrs.  Marchbanks,  haughtily.  "  It  is  al- 
ways a  pity  when  people  take  the  lead  who  are  not  exactly 
qualified.  Mrs.  Holabird  ivill  not  discriminate  !  " 

"  I  think  the  Holabirds  are  splendid,"  spoke  up  Lily, 
"  and  I  don't  think  there's  any  fun  in  sticking  up  by  our- 
selves !  I  can't  bear  to  be  judicious  !  " 

Poor  little  Lily  Marchbanks  had  been  told  a  tiresome 
many  times  that  she  must  be  "judicious  "  in  her  intima- 
cies. 

"  You  can  be  pleasant  to  everybody,"  said  mother  and 
elder  sister,  with  a  salvo  of  Christian  benignity. 

But  it  is  so  hard  for  little  children  to  be  pleasant  with 
fence  and  limitation. 

"  Where  must  I  stop  ?  "  Lily  had  asked  in  her  simplic- 
ity. "  When  they  give  me  a  piece  of  their  luncheon,  or 
when  they  walk  home  from  school,  or  when  they  say  they 
will  come  in  a  little  while  ?  " 

But  there  came  a  message  back  from  Boston  by  the 
eleven  o'clock  train  on  the  morning  of  the  Tuesday  with 
a  little  "  t,"  from  Mr.  Marchbanks  himself,  to  say  that  his 
brother  and  Mr.  Geoffrey  would  come  up  with  him  to  din- 
ner, and  to  desire  that  carriages  might  be  ready  afterward 
for  the  drive  over  to  Waite's  grove. 

Mrs.  Marchbanks  marveled,  but  gave  her  orders.  Ar- 
thur came  out  early,  and  brought  with  him  his  friend 
Archie  Mucklegrand  :  and  these  two  were  bound  also  for 

O  * 

the  merry-making. 


216  REAL    FOLKS. 

Now  Archie  Mucklegrand  was  the  identical  youth  of 
the  lavender  pantaloons  and  the  waxed  moustache,  whom 
Desire,  as  "  Miss  Ledwith,"  had  received  in  state  a  year 
and  a  half  ago. 

So  it  was  an  imposing  cavalcade,  after  all,  from  West 
Hill,  that  honored  the  very  indiscriminate  pleasure  party, 
and  came  riding  and  driving  in  at  about  six  o'clock.  There 
were  the  barouche  and  the  coup6  for  the  ladies  and  elder 
gentlemen,  and  the  two  young  men  accompanied  them  on 
horseback. 

Archie  Mucklegrand  had  been  at  West  Hill  often  be- 
fore. He  and  Arthur  had  just  graduated  at  Harvard,  and 
the  Holabirds  had  had  cards  to  their  grand  spread  on  Class 
Day.  Archie  Mucklegrand  had  found  out  what  a  pretty 
girl  —  and  a  good  deal  more  than  merely  pretty  —  Rosa- 
mond Holabird  was  ;  and  although  he  might  any  day  go 
over  to  his  big,  wild  Highland  estate,  and  take  upon  him- 
self the  glory  of  "  Sir  Archibald  "  there  among  the  hills 
and  moors,  —  and  though  any  one  of  a  good  many  pretty 
girls  in  Spreadsplendid  Park  and  Republic  Avenue  might 
be  induced,  perhaps,  if  he  tried,  to  go  with  him,  —  all  this 

did  not  hinder  him  from  perceiving  that  up  here  in  Z 

was  just  the  most  bewitching  companionship  he  had  ever 
fallen  in  with,  or  might  ever  be  able  to  choose  for  himself 
for  any  going  or  abiding  ;  that  Rosamond  Holabird  was 
just  the  brightest,  and  sweetest,  and  most  to  his  mind  of 
any  girl  that  he  had  ever  seen,  and  most  like  "  the 
woman  "  that  a  man  might  dream  of.  I  do  not  know  that 
he  quite  said  it  all  to  himself  in  precisely  that  way ;  I  am 
pretty  sure  that  he  did  not,  as  yet ;  but  whatever  is  off- 
hand and  young-mannish  and  modern  enough  to  express 
to  one's  self  without  "  sposhiness "  an  admiration  and  a 
preference  like  that,  he  undoubtedly  did  say,  At  any  rate, 


QUESTIONS    AND   ANSWERS.  217 

after  his  Christmas  at  Z with  Arthur,  and  some  cha- 
rade parties  they  had  then  at  Westover,  and  after  Class 
Day,  when  everybody  had  been  furious  to  get  an  introduc- 
tion, and  all  the  Spreadsplendid  girls  and  their  mothers 
had  been  wondering  who  that  Miss  Holabird  was  and 
where  she  came  from,  and  Madam  Mucklegrand  herself — 
not  having  the  slightest  recollection  of  her  as  the  Miss 
Holabird  of  that  early-morning  business  call,  whose  name 
she  had  just  glanced  at  and  dropped  into  an  Indian  china 
scrap-jar  before  she  went  down-stairs  —  had  asked  him  the 
same  questions,  and  pronounced  that  she  was  "  an  exceed- 
ingly graceful  little  person,  certainly,"  —  after  all  this, 
Archie  had  made  up  his  —  mind,  shall  I  say  ?  at  least  his 
inclination,  and  his  moustache  —  to  pursue  the  acquaint- 
ance, and  be  as  irresistible  as  he  could. 

But  Rosamond  had  learned  —  things  do  so  play  into  our 
lives  in  a  benign  order — just  before  that  Christmas  time 
and  those  charades,  in  one  of  which  Archie  Mucklegrand 
had  sung  to  her,  so  expressively,  the  "  Birks  of  Aber- 
feldy,"  —  that  Spreadsplendid  Park  was  not,  at  least  his 
corner  of  it,  —  a  "  piece  of  her  world  ;  "  and  she  did  not 
believe  that  Aberfeldy  would  be,  either,  though  Archie's 
voice  was  beautiful,  and  — 

"  Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go  ?  " 
sounded  very  enticing  —  in  a  charade. 

So  she  was  quite  calm  when  the  Marchbanks  party  came 
upon  the  ground,  and  Archie  Mucklegrand,  with  white 
trousers  and  a  lavender  tie,  and  the  trim,  waxed  mous- 
tache, looking  very  handsome  in  spite  of  his  dapperness, 
found  her  out  in  the  first  two  minutes,  and  attached  him- 
self to  her  forthwith  in  a  most  undetachable  and  deter- 
mined manner,  which  was  his  way  of  being  irresistible. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  their  tea  and  coffee  when 


218  REAL    FOLKS. 

the  West  Hill  party  came.  Miss  Arabel  was  busy  at  the 
coffee-table  between  the  two  oaks,  pouring  out  with  all 
her  might,  and  creaming  the  fragrant  cups  with  a  rich 
lavishness  that  seemed  to  speak  of  milky  mothers  without 
number  or  limit  of  supply ;  and  Rosamond,  as  the  most 
natural  and  hospitable  thing  to  do,  conducted  the  young 
gentleman  as  soon  as  she  could  to  that  lady,  and  com- 
mended him  to  her  good  offices. 

These  were  not  to  be  resisted  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was 
occupied,  Rosamond  turned  to  attend  to  others  coming  up  ; 
and  the  groups  shifting,  she  found  herself  presently  a  lit- 
tle way  off,  and  meanwhile  Mrs.  Marchbanks  and  her  son 
had  reached  the  table  and  joined  Archie. 

"  I  say,  Arthur  !  O,  Mrs.  Marchbanks  !  You  never 
got  such  coffee  as  this,  I  do  believe  !  The  open  air  has 
done  something  to  it,  or  else  the  cream  comes  from  some 
supernal  cows  !  Miss  Holabird  !  " 

Rosamond  turned  round. 

"  I  don't  see,  —  Mrs.  Marchbanks  ought  to  have  some 
of  this  coffee,  but  where  is  your  good  woman  gone  ?  " 
For  Miss  Arabel  had  stepped  round  behind  the  oak-tree 
for  a  moment,  to  see  about  some  replenishing. 

In  her  prim,  plain  dress,  utterly  innocent  of  style  or 
bias,  and  her  zealous  ministry,  good  Miss  Arabel  might 
easily  be  taken  for  some  comfortable,  superior  old  servant ; 
but  partly  from  a  sudden  sense  of  fun-,  —  Mrs.  March- 
banks  standing  there  in  all  her  elegant  dignity,  —  and 
partly  from  a  jealous  chivalry  of  friendship,  Rosamond 
would  not  let  it  pass  so. 

"  Good  woman  ?  Hush  !  she  is  one  of  our  hostesses  ; 
the  owner  of  the  ground,  and  a  dear  friend  of  mine. 
Here  she  is.  Miss  Waite,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Archibald 
Mucklegrand.  Mrs.  Marchbanks  will  like  some  coffee, 
please." 


QUESTIONS    AND    ANSWERS.  219 

Which  Mrs.  Marchbanks  took  with  a  certain  look  of 
amazement,  that  showed  itself  subtilely  in  a  slight  straight- 
ening of  the  lips  and  an  expansion  of  the  nostrils.  She 
did  not  sniff ;  she  was  a  great  deal  too  much  a  lady ;  she 
was  Mrs.  Marchbanks,  but  if  she  had  been  Mrs.  Hio-o-in, 

GO         ' 

and  had  felt  just  so,  she  would  have  sniffed. 

Somebody  came  up  close  to  Rosamond  on  the  other 
side. 

"  That  was  good,"  said  Kenneth  Kincaid.  "  Thank 
you  for  that,  Miss  Rosamond." 

"  Will  you  have  some  more  ?  "  asked  Rosamond,  cun- 
ningly, pretending  to  misunderstand,  and  reaching  her 
hand  to  take  his  empty  cup. 

"  One  mustn't  ask  for  all  one  would  like,"  said  Ken- 
neth, relinquishing  the  cup,  and  looking  straight  in  her 
eyes. 

Rosamond's  eyes  fell ;  she  had  no  rejoinder  ready  ;  it 
was  very  well  that  she  had  the  cup  to  take  care  of,  and 
could  turn  away,  for  she  felt  a  very  foolish  color  coming 
up  in  her  face. 

She  made  herself  very  busy  among  the  guests.  Archie 
Mucklegrand  stayed  by,  and  spoke  to  her  every  time  he 
found  a  chance.  At  last,  when  people  had  nearly  done 
eating  and  drinking,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  not  show 
him  the  path  down  to  the  river. 

"  It  must  be  beautiful  down  there  under  the  slope,"  he 
said. 

She  called  Dorris  and  Desire,  then,  and  Oswald  Me- 
gilp, who  was  with  them.  He  was  spending  a  little  time 
here  at  the  Prendibles,  with  his  boat  on  the  river,  as  he 
had  used  to  do.  When  he  could  take  an  absolute  vacation, 
he  was  going  away  with  a  pedestrian  party,  among  the 
mountains.  There  was  not  much  in  poor  Oswald  Megilp, 


220  REAL    FOLKS. 

but  Desire  and  Rosamond  were  kind  to  him  now  that  his 
mother  was  away. 

As  they  all  walked  down  the  bank  among  the  close 
evergreens,  they  met  Mr.  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Marchbanks, 
with  Kenneth  Kincaid,  coming  up.  Kenneth  came  last, 
and  the  two  parties  passed  each  other  single  file,  in  the 
narrow  pathway. 

Kenneth  paused  as  he  came  close  to  Rosamond,  holding 
back  a  bough  for  her. 

"  I  have  something  very  nice  to  tell  you,"  he  whis- 
pered, "  by  and  by.  But  it  is  a  secret,  as  yet.  Please 
don't  stay  down  there  very  long." 

Nobody  heard  the  whisper  but  Rosamond ;  if  they 
could  have  done  so,  he  would  not  have  whispered.  Ar- 
chie Mucklegrand  was  walking  rather  sulkily  along  be- 
fore ;  he  had  not  cared  for  a  party  to  be  made  up  when 
he  asked  Rosamond  to  go  down  to  the  river  with  him. 
Desire  and  Dorris  had  found  some  strange  blossom  among 
the  underbrush,  and  were  stopping  for  it ;  and  Oswald 
Megilp  was  behind  them.  For  a  few  seconds,  Kenneth 
had  Rosamond  quite  to  himself. 

The  slight  delay  had  increased  the  separation  between 
her  and  Archie  Mucklegrand,  for  he  had  kept  steadily  on 
in  his  little  huff. 

"  I  do  not  think  we  shall    be    loner,"    said  Rosamond, 

O'  ' 

glancing  after  him,  and  looking  up,  with  her  eyes  bright. 
She  was  half  merry  with  mischief,  and  half  glad  with  a 
quieter,  deeper  pleasure,  at  Kenneth's  words. 

He  would  tell  her  something  in  confidence  ;  something 
that  he  was  glad  of;  he  wanted  her  to  know  it  while  it 
was  yet  a  secret ;  she  had  not  the  least  guess  what  it 
could  be;  but  it  was  very  "nice"  already.  Rosamond 
always  did  rather  like  to  be  told  things  first ;  to  have  her 


QUESTIONS    AND    ANSWERS.  221 

friends  confide  in  and  consult  with  her,  and  rely  upon  her 
sympathy ;  she  did  not  stop  to  separate  the  old  feeling 
which  she  was  quite  aware  of  in  herself,  from  something 
new  that  made  it  especially  beautiful  that  Kenneth  Kin- 
caid  should  so  confide  and  rely. 

Rosamond  was  likely  to  have  more  told  her  to-night 
than  she  quite  dreamed  of. 

"  Desire ! " 

They  heard  Mrs.  Ledwith's  voice  far  back  among  the 
trees. 

Desire  answered. 

"  I  want  you,  dear !  " 

"  Something  about  shawls  and  baskets,  I  suppose,"  said 
Desire,  turning  round,  perhaps  a  little  the  more  readily 
that  Kenneth  was  beside  her  now,  going  back  also. 

Dorris  and  Oswald  Megilp,  finding  there  was  a  move 
to  return,  and  being  behind  Desire  in  the  pathway,  turned 
also,  as  people  will  who  have  no  especial  motive  for  going 
one  way  rather  than  another  ;  and  so  it  happened  that 
after  all  Rosamond  and  Archie  Mucklegrand  walked  on 
down  the  bank  to  the  river  together,  by  themselves. 

Archie's  good  humor  returned  quickly. 

"  I  am  glad  they  are  gone  ;  it  was  such  a  fuss  having 
so  many,"  he  said. 

"  We  shall  have  to  go  back  directly ;  they  are  begin- 
ning to  break  up,"  said  Rosamond. 

And  then,  coming  out  to  the  opening  by  the  water,  she 
began  to  talk  rather  fast  about  the  prettiness  of  the  view, 
and  to  point  out  the  bridge,  and  the  mills,  and  the  shadow 
of  East  Hill  upon  the  water,  and  the  curve  of  the  opposite 
shore,  and  the  dip  of  the  shrubs  and  their  arched  reflec- 
tions. She  seemed  quite  determined  to  have  all  the  talk 
to  herself. 


222  REAL    FOLKS. 

Archie  Mucklegrand  played  with  his  stick,  and  twisted 
the  end  of  his  moustache.  Men  never  ought  to  allow  them- 
selves to  learn  that  trick.  It  always  comes  back  upon 
them  when  it  makes  them  look  most  foolish. 

Archie  said  nothing,  because  there  was  so  much  he 
wanted  to  say,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 

He  knew  his  mother  and  sister  would  not  like  it,  —  as 
long  as  they  could  help  it,  certainly,  —  therefore  he  had 
suddenly  made  up  his  mind  that  there  should  be  no  such 
interval.  He  could  do  as  he  pleased  ;  was  he  not  Sir  Arch- 
ibald ?  And  there  was  his  Boston  grandfather's  property, 
too,  of  which  a  large  share  had  been  left  outright  to  him  ; 
and  he  had  been  twenty-one  these  six  months.  There 
was  nothing  to  hinder :  and  he  meant  to  tell  Rosamond 

O  * 

Holabird  that  he  liked  her  better  than  any  other  girl  in  the 
world.  Somebody  else  would  be  telling  her  so,  if  he  didn't ; 
he  could  see  how  they  all  came  round  her ;  perhaps  it 
might  be  that  tall,  quiet,  cheeky  looking  fellow,  —  that 
Kincaid.  He  would  be  before  him,  at  any  rate. 

So  he  stood  and  twisted  his  moustache,  and  said  noth- 
ing, —  nothing,  I  mean,  except  mere  little  words  of  assent 
and  echo  to  Rosamond»'s  chatter  about  the  pretty  view. 

At  last,  —  "  You  are  fond  of  scenery,  Miss  Holabird  ?  " 

Rosamond  laughed. 

"  O  yes,  I  suppose  I  am  ;  but  we  don't  call  this  scenery. 
It  is  just  pleasantness,  —  beauty.  I  don't  think  I  quite 
like  the  word  '  scenery.'  It  seems  artificial,  —  got  up 
for  outside  effect.  And  the  most  beautiful  things  do  not 
speak  from  the  outside,  do  they  ?  I  never  travelled,  Mr. 
Mucklegrand.  I  have  just  lived  here,  until  I  have  lived 
into  things,  or  they  into  me.  I  rather  think  it  is  travel- 
ling, skimming  about  the  world  in  a  hurry,  that  makes 
people  talk  about  '  scenery.'  Isn't  it  ?  " 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  223 

"  I  dare  say.  I  don't  care  for  skimming,  myself.  But 
I  like  to  go  to  nice  places,  and  stay  long  enough  to  get 
into  them,  as  you  say.  I  mean  to  go  to  Scotland  next 
year.  I've  a  place  there  among  the  hills  and  lochs,  Miss 
Rosamond." 

"  Yes.  I  have  heard  so.  I  should  think  you  would 
wish  to  go  and  see  it." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish,  Miss  Holabird !  "  he  said 
suddenly,  letting  go  his  moustache,  and  turning  round  with 
sufficient  manfulness,  and  facing  her.  "  I  suppose  there  is 
a  more  gradual  and  elegant  way  of  saying  it ;  but  I  be- 
lieve straightforward  is  as  good  as  any.  I  wish  you  cared 
for  me  as  I  care  for  you,  and  then  you  would  go  with 
me." 

Rosamond  was  utterly  confounded.  She  had  not  im- 
agined that  it  could  be  hurled  at  her,  this  fashion ;  she 
thought  she  could  parry  and  put  aside,  if  she  saw  anything 
coming.  She  was  bewildered  and  breathless  with  the 
shock  of  it ;  she  could  only  blindly,  and  in  very  foolish 
words,  hurl  it  back. 

"  O,  dear,  no !  "  she  exclaimed,  her  face  crimson.  "  I 
mean  —  I  don't  —  I  couldn't !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Mucklegrand ;  you  are  very  good  ;  I  am  very  sorry ;  but 
I  wish  you  hadn't  said  so.  We  had  better  go  back." 

"  No,"  said  Archie  Mucklegrand,  "  not  yet.  I've  said 
it  now.  I  said  it  like  a  moon  calf,  but  I  mean  it  like  a 
man.  Won't  you  — can't  you — be  my  wife,  Rosamond  ? 
I  must  know  that." 

"No,  Mr.  Mucklegrand,"  answered  Rosamond,  quite 
steadily  now  and  gently.  "  I  could  not  be.  We  were 
never  meant  for  each  other.  You  will  think  so  yourself 
next  year,  —  by  the  time  you  go  to  Scotland." 

"  I  shall  never  think  so." 


224  REAL    FOLKS. 

Of  course  he  said  that ;  young  men  always  do  ;  they 
mean  it  at  the  moment,  and  nothing  can  persuade  them 
otherwise. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  lived  right  here,  and  grown  into  these 
things,  and  they  into  me,"  said  Rosamond,  with  a  sweet 
slow  earnestness,  as  if  she  thought  out  while  she  explained 
it;  and  so  she  did;  for  the  thought  and  meaning  of  her 
life  dawned  upon  her  with  a  new  perception,  as  she  stood 
at  this  point  and  crisis  of  it  in  the  responsibility  of  her 
young  womanhood.  "  And  these,  and  all  the  things  that 
have  influenced  me,  have  given  my  life  its  direction  ;  and 
I  can  see  clearly  that  it  was  never  meant  to  be  your 
way.  I  do  not  know  what  it  will  be  ;  but  I  know  yours 
is  different.  It  would  be  wrenching  mine  to  turn  it  so." 

"  But  I  would  turn  mine  for  you,"  said  Archie. 

"  You  couldn't.  Lives  grow  together.  They  join  be- 
forehand, if  they  join  at  all.  You  like  me,  perhaps,  — 
just  what  you  see  of  me  ;  but  you  do  not  know  me,  nor  I 
you.  If  it  —  this  —  were  meant,  we  should." 

"Should  what?" 

"  Know.     Be  sure." 

"  I  am  sure  of  what  I  told  you." 

"  And  I  thank  you  very  much ;  but  I  do  not  —  I 
never  could  —  belong  to  you." 

What  made  Rosamond  so  wise  about  knowing  and 
belonging  ? 

She  could  not  tell,  herself;  she  had  never  thought  it  out 
before  ;  but  she  seemed  to  see  it  very  clearly  now.  She 
did  not  belong  to  Archie  Mucklegrand,  nor  he  to  her ;  he 
was  mistaken  ;  their  lives  had  no  join  ;  to  make  them  join 
would  be  a  force,  a  wrenching. 

Archie  Mucklegrand  did  not  care  to  have  it  put  on  such 
deep  ground.  He  liked  Rosamond ;  he  wanted  her  to 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  225 

like  him  ;  then  they  should  be  married,  of  course,  and  go 
to  Scotland,  and  have  a  good  time  ;  but  this  quiet  philoso- 
phy cooled  him  somewhat.  As  they  walked  up  the  bank 
together,  he  wondered  at  himself  a  little  that  he  did  not 
feel  worse  about  it.  If  she  had  been  coquettish,  or  per- 
verse, she  might  have  been  all  the  more  bewitching  to 
him.  If  he  had  thought  she  liked  somebody  else  better, 
he  might  have  been  furiously  jealous  ;  but  "  her  way  of 
liking  a  fellow  would  be  a  slow  kind  of  a  way,  after  all." 
That  was  the  gist  of  his  thought  about  it ;  and  I  believe 
that  to  many  very  young  men,  at  the  age  of  waxed  mous- 
taches and  German  dancing,  that  "  slow  kind  of  a  way  " 
in  a  girl  is  the  best  possible  insurance  against  any  lasting 
damage  that  their  own  enthusiasm  might  suffer. 

He  had  not  been  contemptible  in  the  offering  of  his 
love ;  his  best  had  come  out  at  that  moment ;  if  it  does 
not  come  out  then,  somehow,  —  through  face  and  tone,  in 
some  plain  earnestness  or  simple  nobleness,  if  not  in  fashion 
of  the  spoken  word  as  very  well  it  may  not,  —  it  must  be 
small  best  that  the  man  has  in  him. 

Rosamond's  simple  saying  of  the  truth,  as  it  looked  to  her 
in  that  moment  of  sure  insight,  was  the  best  help  she  could 
have  given  him.  Truth  is  always  the  best  help.  He  did 
not  exactly  understand  the  wherefore,  as  she  understood 
it ;  but  the  truth  touched  him  nevertheless,  in  the  way  that 
he  could  perceive.  They  did  not  "  belong  "  to  each  other. 

And  riding  down  in  the  late  train  that  evening,  Archie 
Mucklegrand  said  to  himself,  drawing  a  long  breath,  — 
"  It  would  have  been  an  awful  tough  little  joke,  after  all, 
telling  it  to  the  old  lady !  " 

"  Are  you  too  tired  to  walk  home  ?  "  Kenneth  Kincaid 
asked  of  Rosamond,  helping  her  put  the  baskets  in  the 
carriage. 

15 


226  REAL    FOLKS. 

Dakie  Thayne  had  asked  Ruth  the  same  question  five 
minutes  before,  and  they  two  had  gone  on  already.  Are 
girls  ever  too  tired  to  walk  home  after  a  picnic,  when  the 
best  of  the  picnic  is  going  to  walk  home  with  them  ?  Of 
course  Rosamond  was  not  too  tired  ;  and  Mrs.  Holabird 
had  the  carryall  quite  to  herself  and  her  baskets. 

They  took  the  River  Road,  that  was  shady  all  the  way, 
and  sweet  now  with  the  dropping  scents  of  evening;  it 
was  a  little  longer,  too,  I  think,  though  that  is  one  of  the 
local  questions  that  have  never  yet  been  fully  decided. 

"  How  far  does  Miss  Waite's  ground  run  along  the 
river  ?  "  asked  Kenneth,  taking  Rosamond's  shawl  over 
his  arm. 

u  Not  far ;  it  only  just  touches ;  it  runs  back  and 
broadens  toward  the  Old  Turnpike.  The  best  of  it  is  in 
those  woods  and  pastures." 

"  So  I  thought.  And  the  pastures  are  pretty  much  run 
out." 

"  I  suppose  so.  They  are  full  of  that  lovely  gray 
crackling  moss." 

"  Lovely  for  picnics.  Don't  you  think  Miss  Waite 
would  like  to  sell  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  if  she  could.  That  is  her  dream ;  what 
she  has  been  laying  up  for  her  old  age  :  to  turn  the  acres 
into  dollars,  and  build  or  buy  a  little  cottage,  and  settle 
down  safe.  It  is  all  she  has  in  the  world,  except  her 
dressmaking." 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Marchbanks  want  to  buy. 
They  will  offer  her  sixteen  thousand  dollars.  That  is  the 
secret,  —  part  of  it." 

"  O,  Mr.  Kincaid !  How  glad,  —  how  sorry,  I  can't 
help  being,  too  !  Miss  Waite  to  be  so  comfortable  !  And 
never  to  have  her  dear  old  woods  to  picnic  in  any 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  227 

more  !  I  suppose  they  want  to  make  streets  and  build  it 
all  up." 

"Not  all.  I'll  tell  you.  It  is  a  beautiful  plan.  Mr. 
Geoffrey  wants  to  build  a  street  of  twenty  houses,  —  ten 
on  a  side, — with  just  a  little  garden  plot  for  each,  and 
leave  the  woods  behind  for  a  piece  of  nature  for  the  gen- 
eral good,  —  a  real  Union  Park  ;  a  place  for  children  to 
play  in,  and  grown  folks  to  rest  and  walk  and  take  tea  in, 
if  they  choose  ;  but  for  nobody  to  change  or  meddle  with 
any  further.  And  these  twenty  houses  to  be  let  to  re- 
spectable persons  of  small  means,  at  rents  that  will  give 
him  seven  per  cent,  for  his  whole  outlay.  Don't  you  see  ? 
Young  people,  and  people  like  Miss  Waite  herself,  who 
don't  want  much  house-room,  but  who  want  it  nice  and 
comfortable,  and  will  keep  it  so,  and  who  do  want  a  little 
of  God's  world-room  to  grow  in,  that  they  can't  get  in 
the  crowded  town  streets,  where  the  land  is  selling  by  the 
foot  to  be  all  built  over  with  human  packing-cases,  and 
where  they  have  to  pay  as  much  for  being  shut  up  and 
smothered,  as  they  will  out  here  to  live  and  breathe. 
That  Mr.  Geoffrey  is  a  glorious  man,  Rosamond  !  He  is 
doing  just  this  same  thing  in  the  edges  of  three  or  four 
other  towns,  buying  up  the  land  just  before  it  gets  too 
dear,  to  save  for  people  who  could  not  save  it  for  them- 
selves. He  is  providing  for  a  class  that  nobody  seems  to 
have  thought  of,  —  the  nice,  narrow-pursed  people,  and 
the  young  beginners,  who  get  married  and  take  the  world 
in  the  old-fashioned  way." 

He  had  no  idea  he  had  called  her  "  Rosamond,"  till  he 
saw  the  color  shining  up  so  in  her  face  verifying  the 
name.  Then  it  flashed  out  upon  him  as  he  sent  his 
thought  back  through  the  last  few  sentences  that  he  lu»  ( 
spoken. 


REAL   POLKS. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  suddenly.  "  But  I  was 
so  full  of  this  beautiful  doing,  —  and  I  always  think  of  you 
so  !  Is  there  a  sin  in  that  ?  " 

Rosamond  colored  deeper  yet,  and  Kenneth  grew  more 
bold.  He  had  spoken  it  without  plan;  it  had  come  of 
itself. 

"  I  can't  help  it  now.  I  shall  say  it  again,  unless  you 
tell  me  not !  Rosamond  I  I  shall  have  these  houses  to 
build.  I  am  getting  ever  so  much  to  do.  Could  you 
begin  the  world  with  me,  Rosamond?  " 

Rosamond  did  not  say  a  word  for  a  full  minute.  She 
only  walked  slowly  by  his  side,  her  beautiful  head  inclined 
gently,  shyly ;  her  sweet  face  all  one  bloom,  as  faces  never 
bloom  but  once. 

Then  she  turned  toward  him  and  put  out  her  hand. 

"  I  will  begin  the  world  with  you,"  she  said. 

And  their  world  —  that  was  begun  for  them  before  they 
were  born  —  lifted  up  its  veil  and  showed  itself  to  them, 
bright  in  the  eternal  morning. 

Desire  Ledwith  walked  home  all  alone.  She  left  Dor- 
ris  at  Miss  Waite's,  and  Helena  had  teased  to  stay  with 
her.  Mrs.  Ledwith  had  gone  home  among  the  first,  tak- 
ing a  seat  offered  her  in  Mrs.  Tom  Friske's  carriage  to 
East  Square  ;  she  had  a  headache,  and  was  tired. 

Desire  felt  the  old,  miserable  questions  coming  up, 
tempting  her. 

Why  ? 

Why  was  she  left  out, — forgotten?  Why  was  there 
nothing,  very  much,  in  any  of  this,  for  her  ? 

Yet  underneath  the  doubting  and  accusing,  something 
lived  —  stayed  by  —  to  rebuke  it ;  rose  up  above  it 
finally,  and  put  it  down,  though  with  a  thrust  that  hurt  the 
heart  in  which  the  doubt  was  trampled. 


QUESTIONS   AND    ANSWERS.  229 

Wait.     Wait  —  with  all  your  might ! 

Desire  could  do  nothing  very  meekly  ;  but  she  could 
even  wait  with  all  her  might.  She  put  her  foot  down 
with  a  will,  at  every  step. 

"  I  was  put  here  to  be  Desire  Ledwith,"  she  said,  re- 
lentlessly, to  herself;  "  not  Rosamond  Holabird,  nor  even 
Dolly.  Well,  I  suppose  I  can  stay  put,  and  be  !  If  things 
would  only  let  me  be  !  " 

But  they  will  not.     Things  never  do,  Desire. 

They  are  coming,  now,  upon  you.  Hard  things,  —  and 
all  at  once. 


230  REAL    FOLKS. 

XVIII. 

ALL    AT    ONCE. 

THERE  was  a  Monday  morning  train  going  down 
from  Z . 

Mr.  Ledwith  and  Kenneth  Kincaid  were  in  it,  reading 
the  morning  papers,  seated  side  by  side. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  since  the  picnic,  but  the  engage- 
ment of  Rosamond  and  Kenneth  had  not  transpired.  Mr. 
Holabird  had  been  away  in  New  York.  Of  course  noth- 
ing was  said  beyond  Mrs.  Holabird  and  Ruth  and  Dolly 
Kincaid,  until  his  return.  But  Kenneth  carried  a  happy 
face  about  with  him,  in  the  streets  and  in  the  cars  and 
about  his  Avork ;  and  his  speech  was  quick  and  bright  with 
the  men  he  met  and  had  need  to  speak  to.  It  almost  told 
itself;  people  might  have  guessed  it,  if  they  had  hap- 
pened, at  least  to  see  the  two  faces  in  the  same  day,  and  if 
they  were  alive  to  sympathetic  impressions  of  other  peo- 
ple's pain  or  joy.  There  are  not  many  who  stop  to  piece 
expressions,  from  pure  sympathy,  however  ;  they  are,  for 
the  most  part,  too  busy  putting  this  and  that  together  for 
themselves. 

Desire  would  have  guessed  it  in  a  minute  ;  but  she  saw 
little  of  either  in  this  week.  Mrs.  Ledwith  was  not  well, 
and  there  was  a  dress  to  be  made  for  Helena. 

Kenneth  Kincaid's  elder  men  friends  said  of  him,  when 
they  saw  him  in  these  days,  "  That's  a  fine  fellow ;  he  is 
doing  very  well."  They  could  read  that ;  he  carried  it  in 
his  eye  and  in  his  tone  and  in  his  step,  and  it  was  true. 

It  was  a  hot  morning ;  it  would  be  a  stifling  day  in  the 


ALL   AT    ONCE.  231 

city.  They  sat  quiet  while  they  could,  in  the  cars,  taking 
the  fresh  air  of  the  fields  and  the  sea  reaches,  reading  the 
French  news,  and  saying  little. 

They  came  almost  in  to  the  city  terminus,  when  the  train 
stopped.  Not  at  a  station.  There  were  people  to  alight 
at  the  last  but  one ;  these  grew  impatient  after  a  few  min- 
utes, and  got  out  and  walked. 

The  train  still  waited. 

Mr.  Ledwith  finished  a  column  he  was  reading,  and 
then  looked  up,  as  the  conductor  came  along  the  passage. 

"  What  is  the  delay  ?  "  he  asked  of  him. 

"  Freight.  Got  such  a  lot  of  it.  Takes  a  good  while 
to  handle." 

Freight  outward  bound.     A  train  making  up. 

Mr.  Ledwith  turned  to  his  newspaper  again. 

Ten  minutes  went  by.  Kenneth  Kincaid  got  up  and 
went  out,  like  many  others.  They  might  be  kept  there 
half  an  hour. 

Mr.  Ledwith  had  read  all  his  paper,  and  began  to  grow 
impatient.  He  put  his  head  out  at  the  window,  and  looked 
and  listened.  Half  the  passengers  were  outside.  Brake- 
men  were  walking  up  and  down. 

"  Has  he  got  a  flag  out  there  ?  "  says  the  conductor  to 
one  of  these. 

"  Don't  know.  Can't  see.  Yes,  he  has  ;  I  heard  him 
whistle  brakes." 

Just  then,  their  own  bell  sounded,  and  men  jumped  on 
board.  Kenneth  Kincaid  came  back  to  his  seat. 

Behind,  there  was  a  long  New  York  train  coming  in. 

Mr.  Ledwith  put  his  head  out  again,  and  looked  back. 
All  right ;  there  had  been  a  flag ;  the  train  had  slackened 
just  beyond  a  curve. 

But  why  will  people  do  such  things  ?     What  is  the  use 


232  REAL    FOLKS. 

of  asking  ?  Mr.  Ledwith  still  looked  out ;  he  could  not 
have  told  you  why. 

A  quicker  motion  ;  a  darkening  of  the  window  ;  a  freight 
car  standing  upon  a  siding,  close  to  the  switch,  as  they 
passed  by ;  a  sudden,  dull  blow,  half  unheard  in  the  rum- 
ble of  the  train.  Women,  sitting  behind,  sprang  up, — 
screamed;  one  dropped,  fainting  :  they  had  seen  a  ghastly 
sight ;  warm  drops  of  blood  flew  in  upon  them ;  the  car 
was  in  commotion. 

Kenneth  Kincaid,  with  an  exclamation  of  horror, 
clutched  hold  of  a  lifeless  body  that  fell  —  was  thrust  — 
backward  beside  him  ;  the  poor  head  fractured,  shattered, 
against  the  fatal  window  frame. 

The  eleven  o'clock  train  came  out. 

People  came  up  the  street,  —  a  group  of  gentlemen, 
three  or  four,  —  toward  Mr.  Prendible's  house. 

Desire  sat  in  a  back  window  behind  the  blinds,  busy. 
Mrs.  Ledwith  was  lying  on  the  bed. 

Steps  came  in  at  the  house  door. 

There  was  an  exclamation  ;  a  hush.  Mr.  Prendible's 
voice,  Kenneth  Kincaid's,  Mr.  Dimsey's,  the  minister's. 

"  O  !     How  ?  "  —  Mrs.  Prendible's  voice,  now. 

"  Take,  care  !  " 

"  Where  are  they?  " 

Mrs.  Ledwith  heard. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  —  springing  up,  with  a  sudden 
instinct  of  precognition. 

Desire  had  not  seen  or  heard  till  now.  She  dropped 
her  work. 

«*  What  is  it,  mother  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ledwith  was  up,  upon  the  floor;  in  the  doorway; 
ont  in  the  passage  ;  trembling ;  seized  all  over  with  a  hor- 
rible dread  and  vague  knowledge. 

O  O 


ALL    AT   ONCE.  233 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is  !  "  she  cried,  to  those  down  below. 

They  were  all  there  upon  the  staircase;  Mrs.  Prendible 
furthest  up. 

"  O,  Mrs.  Ledwith  !  "  she  cried.  "  Don't  be  fright- 
ened !  Don't  take  on  !  Take  it  easy,  —  do !  " 

Desire  rushed  down  among  them  ;  past  Mrs.  Prendible, 
past  the  minister,  straight  to  Kenneth  Kincaid. 

Kenneth  took  her  right  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  into 
a  little  room  below. 

"  There  could  have  been  no  pain,"  he  said,  tenderly. 
"  It  was  the  accident  of  a  moment.  Be  strong,  —  be  pa- 
tient, dear ! " 

There  had  been  tender  words  natural  to  his  lips  lately. 
It  was  not  strange  that  in  his  great  pity  he  used  them 
now. 

"  My  father !  "  gasped  Desire. 

"  Yes ;  your  father.     It  was  our  Father's  will." 

"  Help  me  to  go  to  my  mother  !  " 

She  took  his  hand,  half  blind,  almost  reeling. 

And  then  they  all,  somehow,  found  themselves  up- 
stairs. 

There  were  moans  of  pain ;  there  were  words  of  prayer. 
We  have  no  right  there.  It  is  all  told. 

"  Be  strong,  — be  patient,  dear !  " 

It  came  back,  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness,  the  misery  ; 
it  helped  her  through  those  days ;  it  made  her  strong  for 
her  mother.  It  comforted  her,  she  hardly  knew  how 
much ;  but  O,  how  cruel  it  seemed  afterward  ! 

They  went  directly  down  to  Boston.  Mr.  Ledwith  was 
buried  from  their  own  house.  It  was  all  over  ;  and  now, 
what  should  they  do  ?  Uncle  Titus  came  to  see  them. 
Mrs.  Ripwinkley  came  right  back  from  Homesworth. 


234  REAL   FOLKS. 

Dorris  Kincaid  left  her  summer-time  all  behind,  and  came 
to  stay  with  them  a  week  in  Shubarton  Place.  Mrs.  Led- 
with  craved  companionship ;  her  elder  daughters  were 
away ;  there  were  these  five  weeks  to  go  by  until  she 
could  hear  from  them.  She  would  not  read  their  letters 
that  came  now,  full  of  chat  and  travel. 

Poor  Laura !  her  family  scattered ;  her  dependence 
gone ;  her  life  all  broken  down  in  a  moment ! 

Dorris  Kincaid  did  not  speak  of  Kenneth  and  Rosa- 
mond. How  could  she  bring  news  of  others'  gladness  into 
that  dim  and  sorrowful  house  ? 

Luclarion  Grapp  shut  up  her  rooms,  left  her  plants  and 
her  birds  with  Mrs.  Gallilee,  and  came  up  to  Shubar- 
ton Place  in  the  beginning.  There  were  no  servants 
there  ;  everything  was  adrift ;  the  terrible  blows  of  life 
take  people  between  the  harness,  most  unprovided,  una- 
wares. 

It  was  only  for  a  little  while,  until  they  could  hear  from 
the  girls,  and  make  plans.  Grant  Ledwith's  income  died 
with  him  ;  there  was  ten  thousand  dollars,  life  insurance  ; 
that  would  give  them  a  little  more  than  a  sixth  part  of 
what  his  salary  had  been ;  and  there  were  the  two  thou- 
sand a  year  of  Uncle  Titus  ;  and  the  house,  on  which  there 
was  a  twelve  thousand  dollar  mortgage. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  had  spent  her  life  in  cutting  and  turning 
and  planning ;  after  the  first  shock  was  over,  even  her 
grief  was  counterpoised  and  abated,  by  the  absorption  of 
her  thoughts  into  the  old  channels.  What  they  should 
do,  how  they  should  live,  what  they  could  have  ;  how  it 
should  be  contrived  and  arranged.  Her  mind  busied  itself 
with  all  this,  and  her  trouble  was  veiled,  —  softened.  She 
had  a  dozen  different  visions  and  schemes,  projected  into 
their  details  of  residence,  establishment,  dress,  ordering, 


ALL    AT   ONCE.  235 

—  before  the  letters  came,  bringing  back  the  first  terrible- 
ness  in  the  first  reception  of  and  response  to  it,  of  her 
elder  children. 

It  was  so  awful  to  have  them  away,  —  on  the  other  side 
of  the  world !  If  they  were  only  once  all  together  again  ! 
Families  ought  not  to  separate.  But  then,  it  had  been  for 
their  good ;  how  could  she  have  imagined  ?  She  supposed 
she  should  have  done  the  same  again,  under  the  same  cir- 
cumstances. 

And  then  came  Mrs.  Megilp's  letter,  delayed  a  mail,  as 
she  would  have  delayed  entering  the  room,  if  they  had 
been  rejoined  in  their  grief,  until  the  family  had  first  been 
gathered  together  with  their  tears  and  their  embraces. 

Then  she  wrote,  —  as  she  would  have  come  in  ;  and 
her  letter,  as  her  visit  would  have  been,  was  after  a  few 
words  of  tender  condolence,  —  and  they  were  very  sweet 
and  tender,  for  Mrs.  Megilp  knew  how  to  lay  phrases 
like  illuminating  gold-leaf  upon  her  meaning,  —  eminently 
practical  and  friendly,  full  of  judicious,  not  to  say  miti- 
gating, suggestions. 

It  was  well,  she  thought,  that  Agatha  and  Florence 
were  with  her.  They  had  been  spared  so  much  ;  and 
perhaps  if  all  this  had  happened  first,  they  might  never 
have  come.  As  to  their  return,  she  thought  it  would  be 

•*  O 

a  pity ;  "  it  could  not  make  it  really  any  better  for  you," 
she  said ;  "  and  while  your  plans  are  unsettled,  the  fewer 
you  are,  the  more  easily  you  will  manage.  It  seems  hard 
to  shadow  their  young  lives  more  than  is  inevitable  ;  and 
new  scenes  and  interests  are  the  very  best  things  for 
them ;  their  year  of  mourning  would  be  fairly  blotted  out 
at  home,  you  know.  For  yourself,  poor  friend,  of  course 
you  cannot  care  ;  and  Desire  and  Helena  are  not  much, 
come  forward;  but  it  would  be  a  dead  blank  and  stop  toi 


236  REAL    FOLKS. 

them,  so  much  lost,  right  out ;  and  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a 
kind  Providence  for  the  dear  girls  that  they  should  be 
just  where  they  are.  We  are  living  quietly,  inexpen- 
sively ;  it  will  cost  no  more  to  come  home  at  one  time 
than  at  another  ;  "  etc. 

There  are  persons  to  whom  the  pastime  of  life  is  the 
whole  business  of  it ;  sickness  and  death  and  misfortune, 
—  to  say  nothing  of  cares  and  duties  —  are  the  interrup- 
tions, to  be  got  rid  of  as  they  may. 

The  next  week  came  more  letters ;  they  had  got  a  new 
idea  out  there.  Why  should  not  Mrs.  Ledwith  and  the 
others  come  and  join  them  ?  They  were  in  Munich, 
now  ;  the  schools  were  splendid  ;  would  be  just  the  thing 
for  Helena  ;  and  "  it  was  time  for  mamma  to  have  a  rest." 

This  thought,  among  the  dozen  others,  had  had  its  turn 
in  Mrs.  Ledwith's  head.  To  break  away,  and  leave  every- 
thing, that  is  the  impulse  of  natures  like  hers  when  things 
go  hard  and  they  cannot  shape  them.  Only  to  get  off;  if 
she  could  do  that ! 

Meanwhile,  it  was  far  different  with  Desire. 

She  was  suffering  with  a  deeper  pain ;  not  with  a 
sharper  loss,  for  she  had  see*n  so  little  of  her  father ;  but 
she  looked  in  and  back,  and  thought  of  what  she  ought  to 
miss,  and  what  had  never  been. 

She  ought  to  have  known  her  father  better  ;  his  life 
ought  to  have  been  more  to  her ;  was  it  her  fault,  or, 
harder  yet,  had  it  been  his  ?  This  is  the  sorest  thrust  of 
grief;  when  it  is  only  shock,  and  pity,  and  horror,  and 
after  these  go  by,  not  grief  enough! 

The  child  wrestled  with  herself,  as  she  always  did, 
.questioning,  arraigning.  If  she  could  make  it  all  right, 
in  the  past,  and  now ;  if  she  could  feel  that  all  she  had  to 
.do  was  to  be  tenderly  sorry,  and  to  love  on  through  the 


ALL    AT   ONCE.  237 

darkness,  she  would  not  mind  the  dark  ;  it  would  be  only 
a  phase  of  the  life,  —  the  love.  But  to  have  lived  her 
life  so  far,  to  have  had  the  relations  of  it,  and  yet  not 
to  have  lived  it,  not  to  have  been  real  child,  real  sister, 
not  to  be  real  stricken  daughter  now,  tasting  the  suffer- 
ing just  as  God  made  it  to  be  tasted,  —  was  she  going 
througli  all  things,  even  this,  in  a  vain  shadow  ?  Would 
not  life  touch  her  ? 

She  went  away  back,  strangely,  and  asked  whether  she- 
had  had  any  business  to  be  born  ?  Whether  it  were  a 
piece  of  God's  truth  at  all,  that  she  and  all  of  them  should 
be,  and  call  themselves  a  household,  —  a  home  ?  The 
depth,  the  beauty  of  it  were  so  unfulfilled !  What  was 
wrong,  and  how  far  back  ?  Living  in  the  midst  of  super- 
ficialities ;  in  the  noontide  of  a  day  of  shams ;  putting 
her  hands  forth  and  grasping,  almost  everywhere,  nothing 
but  thin,  hard  surface,  —  she  wondered  how  much  of  the 
world  was  real ;  how  many  came  into  the  world  where, 
and  as,  God  meant  them  to  come.  What  it  was  to  "  climb 
up  some  other  way  into  the  sheepfold,"  and  to  be  a  thief 
and  a  robber,  even  of  life  ! 

These  were  strange  thoughts.  Desire  Ledwith  was  a 
strange  girl. 

But  into  the  midst  there  crept  one  comfort ;  there  was 
one  glimpse  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  daylight. 

Kenneth  Kincaid  came  in  often  to  see  them,  —  to  in- 
quire ;  just  now  he  had  frequent  business  in  the  city ;  he 
brought  ferns  and  flowers,  that  Dorris  gathered  and  filled 
into  baskets,  fresh  and  damp  with  moss. 

Dorris  was  a  dear  friend  ;  she  dwelt  in  the  life  and  the 
brightness ;  she  reached  forth  and  gathered,  and  turned 
and  ministered  again.  The  ferns  and  flowers  were  mes- 
sages; leaves  out  of  God's  living  Word,  that  she  read, 


238  REAL    FOLKS. 

found  precious,  and  sent  on ;  apparitions,  they  seemed, 
standing  forth  to  sense,  and  making  sweet,  true  signs  from 
the  inner  realm  of  everlasting  love  and  glory. 

And  Kenneth,  —  Desire  had  never  lost  out  of  her  heart 
those  words,  —  "  Be  strong,  —  be  patient,  dear  !  " 

He  did  not  speak  to  her  of  himself;  he  could  not  de- 
mand congratulation  from  her  grief;  he  let  it  be  until  she 
should  somehow  learn,  and  of  her  own  accord,  speak  to 
him. 

So  everybody  let  her  alone,  poor  child,  to  her  hurt. 

The  news  of  the  engagement  was  no  Boston  news  ;  it 
was  something  that  had  occurred,  quietly  enoTigh,  among  a 

few  people  away  up  in  Z .  Of  the  persons  who  came 

in,  —  the  few  remaining  in  town,  —  nobody  happened  to 
know  or  care.  The  Ripwinkleys  did,  of  course  ;  but  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley  remembered  last  winter,  and  things  she  had 
read  in  Desire's  unconscious,  undisguising  face,  and  aware 
of  nothing  that  could  be  deepening  the  mischief  now, 
thinking  only  of  the  sufficient  burden  the  poor  child  had 
to  bear,  thought  kindly,  "  better  not." 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Ledwith  was  dwelling  more  and  more 
upon  the  European  plan.  She  made  up  her  mind,  at  last, 
to  ask  Uncle  Titus.  When  all  was  well,  she  would  not 
seem  to  break  a  compact  by  going  away  altogether,  so 
soon,  to  leave  him  ;  but  now,  —  he  would  see  the  differ- 
ence ;  perhaps  advise  it.  She  would  like  to  know  what 
he  would  advise.  After  all  that  had  happened,  —  every- 
thing so  changed,  —  half  her  family  abroad,  —  what  could 
she  do?  Would  it  not  be  more  prudent  to  join  them, 
than  to  set  up  a  home  again  without  them,  and  keep  them 
out  there  ?  And  all  Helena's  education  to  provide  for, 
and  everything  so  cheap  and  easy  there,  and  so  dear  and 
difficult  here  ? 


ALL     AT    ONCE.  239 

"  Now,  tell  me,  truly,  uncle,  should  you  object  ?  Should 
you  take  it  at  all  hard  ?  I  never  meant  to  have  left  you, 
after  all  you  have  done ;  but  you  see  I  have  to  break  up, 
now  poor  Grant  is  gone  ;  we  cannot  live  as  we  did  before, 
even  with  what  you  do  ;  and  —  for  a  little  while  —  it  is 
cheaper  there  ;  and  by  and  by  we  can  come  back  and  make 
some  other  plan.  Besides,  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  must 
go  off;  as  if  there  weren't  anything  left  here  for  me." 

Poor  woman  !  poor  girl,  still,  —  whose  life  had  never 
truly  taken  root! 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Uncle  Titus,  soberly,  "  that  God 
shines  all  round.  He's  on  this  side  as  much  as  He  is  on 
that." 

Mrs.  Ledwith  looked  up  out  of  her  handkerchief,  with 
which  at  that  moment  she  had  covered  her  eyes. 

"  I  never  knew  Uncle  Titus  was  pious  !  "  she  said  to 
herself.  And  her  astonishment  dried  her  tears. 

He  said  nothing  more  that  was  pious,  however ;  he  sim- 
ply assured  her,  then  and  in  conversations  afterward,  that 
he  should  take  nothing  "  hard  ; "  he  never  expected  to 
bind  her,  or  put  her  on  parole ;  he  chose  to  come  to  know 
his  relatives,  and  he  had  done  so ;  he  had  also  done  what 
seemed  to  him  right,  in  return  for  their  meeting  him  half 
way ;  they  were  welcome  to  it  all,  to  take  it  and  use  it  as 
they  best  could,  and  as  circumstances  and  their  own  judg- 
ment dictated.  If  they  went  abroad,  he  should  advise 
them  to  do  it  before  the  winter. 

These  words  implied  consent,  approval.  Mrs.  Ledwith 
went  up-stairs  after  them  with  a  heart  so  much  lightened 
that  she  was  very  nearly  cheerful.  There  would  be  a  good 
deal  to  do  now,  and  something  to  look  forward  to ;  the  old 
pulses  of  activity  were  quickened.  She  could  live  with 
those  faculties  that  had  been  always  vital  in  her,  as  people 


240  REAL    FOLKS. 

breathe  with  one  live  lung ;  but  trouble  and  change  had 
wrought  in  her  no  deeper  or  further  capacity  ;  had  wak- 
ened nothing  that  had  never  been  awake  before. 

The  house  and  furniture  were  to  be  sold  ;  they  would 
sail  in  September. 

When  Desire  perceived  that  it  was  settled,  she  gave 
way  ;  she  had  said  little  before ;  her  mother  had  had  many 
plans,  and  they  amused  her ;  she  'would  not  worry  her 
with  opposition  ;  and  besides,  she  was  herself  in  a  secret 
dream  of  a  hope  half  understood. 

It  happened  that  she  told  it  to  Kenneth  Kincaid  herself; 
she  saw  almost  every  one  who  came,  instead  of  her  mother ; 
Mrs.  Ledwith  lived  in  her  own  room  chiefly.  This  was 
the  way  in  which  it  had  come  about,  that  nobody  noticed 
or  guessed  how  it  was  with  Desire,  and  what  aspect  Ken- 
neth's friendship  and  kindness,  in  the  simple  history  of 
those  few  weeks,  might  dangerously  grow  to  bear  with 
her. 

Except  one  person.  Luclarion  Grapp,  at  last,  made  up 
her  mind. 

Kenneth  heard  what  Desire  told  him,  as  he  heard  all 
she  ever  had  to  tell,  with  a  gentle  interest ;  comforted 
her  when  she  said  she  could  not  bear  to  go,  with  the  sug- 
gestion that  it  might  not  be  for  very  long ;  and  when  she 
looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  kind  of  strange,  pained  won- 
der, and  repeated,  — 

"  But  I  cannot  bear,  —  I  tell  you,  I  cannot  bear  to  go  !  " 
he  answered, — 

"  One  can  bear  all  that  is  right ;  and  out  of  it  the  good 
will  come  that  we  do  not  know.  All  times  go  by.  I  am 
sorry  —  very  sorry  —  that  you  must  go  ;  but  there  will  be 
the  coming  back.  We  must  all  wait  for  that." 

She    did   not   know  what  she  looked  for ;  she  did  not 


ALL   AT    ONCE.  241 

know  what  she  expected  him  to  mean  ;  she  expected  noth- 
ing ;  the  thought  of  his  preventing  it  in  any  way  never 
entered  into  her  head  ;  she  knew,  if  she  had  thought,  how 
he  himself  was  waiting,  working.  She  only  wanted  him 
to  care.  Was  this  caring  ?  Much  ?  She  could  not  tell. 

"  We  never  can  come  back,"  she  said,  impetuously. 
"  There  will  be  all  the  time  —  everything  —  between." 

He  almost  spoke  to  her  of  it,  then ;  he  almost  told  her 
that  the  everything  might  be  more,  not  less ;  that  friend- 
ships gathered,  multiplied ;  that  there  would  be  one  home, 
he  hoped,  in  which,  by  and  by,  she  would  often  be  ;  in 
which  she  would  always  be  a  dear  and  welcome  comer. 

But  she  was  so  sad,  so  tried  ;  his  lips  were  held  ;  in  his 
pure,  honest  kindness,  he  never  dreamt  of  any  harm  that 
his  silence  might  do  ;  it  only  seemed  so  selfish  to  tell  her 
how  bright  it  was  with  him. 

So  he  said,  smiling,  — 

"  And  who  knows  what  the  '  everything  '  may  be  ?  " 
And  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his  as  he  said  good-by,  — 
for  his  little  stops  were  of  minutes  on  his  way,  always, — 
and  held  them  fast,  and  looked  warmly,  hopefully  into  her 
face. 

It  was  all  for  her,  —  to  give  her  hope  and  courage  ;  but 
the  light  of  it  was  partly  kindled  by  his  own  hope  and 
gladness  that  lay  behind  ;  and  how  could  she  know  that, 
or  read  it  right  ?  It  was  at  once  too  much,  and  not 
enough,  for  her. 

Five  minutes  after,  Luclarion  Grapp  went  by  the  parlor 
door  with  a  pile  of  freshly  ironed  linen  in  her  arms,  on  her 
way  up-stairs. 

Desire  lay  upon   the  sofa,  her  face  down  upon  the  pil- 
low ;  her  arms  were  thrown  up,  and  her  hands  clasped 
upon  the  sofa-arm  ;  her  frame  shook  with  sobs. 
16 


242  REAL  FOLKS. 

Luclarion  paused  for  the  time  of  half  a  step  ;  then  she 
went  on.  She  said  to  herself  in  a  whisper,  as  she  went,  — 

"  It  is  a  stump ;  a  proper  hard  one  !  But  there's  nobody 
else ;  and  I  have  got  to  tell  her  ! " 

That  evening,  under  some  pretense  of  clean  towels, 
Luclarion  came  up  into  Desire's  room. 

She  was  sitting  alone,  by  the  window,  in  the  dark. 

Luclarion  fussed  round  a  little  ;  wiped  the  marble  slab 
and  the  basin  ;  set  things  straight ;  came  over  and  asked 
Desire  if  she  should  not  put  up  the  window-bars,  and  light 
the  gas. 

"  No,"  said  Desire.     "  I  like  this  best." 

So  did  Luclarion.     She  had  only  said  it  to  make  time. 

"  Desire,"  she  said,  —  she  never  put  the  "  Miss  "  on,  she 
had  been  too  familiar  all  her  life  with  those  she  was  familiar 
with  at  all,  —  "  the  fact  is  I've  got  something  to  say,  and  I 
came  up  to  say  it." 

She  drew  near — came  close,  —  and  laid  her  great, 
honest,  faithful  hand  on  the  back  of  Desire  Ledwith's 
chair,  put  the  other  behind  her  own  waist,  and  leaned 
over  her. 

"  You  see,  I'm  a  woman,  Desire,  and  I  know.  You 
needn't  mind  me,  I'm  an  old  maid  ;  that's  the  way  I  do 
know.  Married  folks,  even  mothers,  half  the  time  for- 
get. But  old  maids  never  forget.  I've  had  my  stumps, 
and  I  can  see  that  you've  got  yourn.  But  you'd  ought  to 
understand  ;  and  there's  nobody,  from  one  mistake  and 
another,  that's  going  to  tell  you.  It's  awful  hard ;  it  will 
be  a  trouble  to  you  at  first,"  —  and  Luclarion's  strong 
voice  trembled  tenderly  with  the  sympathy  that  her  old 
maid  heart  had  in  it,  after,  and  because  of,  all  those  years, 
—  "  but  Kenneth  Kincaid  "— 


ALL    AT   ONCE.  243 

"  What !  "  cried  Desire,  starting  to  her  feet,  with  a  sud- 
den indignation. 

"  Is  going  to  be  married  to  Rosamond  Holabird,"  said 
Luclarion,  very  gently.  "  There !  you  ought  to  know, 
and  I  have  told  you." 

u  What  makes  you  suppose  that  that  would  be  a  trouble 
to  me  ?  "  blazed  Desire.  "  How  do  you  dare  " — 

"  I  didn't  dare  ;  but  I  had  to  !  "  sobbed  Luclarion,  put- 
ting her  arms  right  round  her. 

And  then  Desire  —  as  she  would  have  done  at  any  rate, 
for  that  blaze  was  the  mere  flash  of  her  own  shame  and 
pain  —  broke  down  with  a  moan. 

"  All  at  once  !  All  at  once !  "  she  said  piteously,  and  hid 
her  face  in  Luclarion's  bosom. 

And  Luclarion  folded  her  close  ;  hugged  her,  the  good 
woman,  in  her  love  that  was  sisterly  and  motherly  and  all, 
because  it  was  the  love  of  an  old  maid,  who  had  endured, 
for  a  young  maid  upon  whom  the  endurance  was  just  laid, 
—  and  said,  with  the  pity  of  heaven  in  the  words,  — 

"  Yes.  All  at  once.  But  the  dear  Lord  stands  by. 
Take  hold  of  His  hand,  —  and  bear  with  all  your 
might!" 


244  REAL  POLKS. 

XIX. 

INSIDE. 

~T\O  you  think,  Luclarion,"  said  Desire,  feebly,  as  Lu- 
*-*  clarion  came  to  take  away  her  bowl  of  chicken 
broth,  — "  that  it  is  my  duty  to  go  with  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Luclarion,  standing  with  the  little 
waiter  in  her  right  hand,  her  elbow  poised  upon  her  hip, 
— "  I've  thought  of  that,  and  I  don't  know.  There's 
most  generally  a  stump,  you  see,  one  way  or  another,  and 
that  settles  it,  but  here  there's  one  both  ways.  I've  kinder 
lost  my  road :  come  to  two  blazes,  and  can't  tell  which. 
Only,  it  ain't  my  road,  after  all.  It  lays  between  the  Lord 
and  you,  and  I  suppose  He  means  it  shall.  Don't  you 
worry ;  there'll  be  some  sort  of  a  sign,  inside  or  out. 
That's  His  business,  you've  just  got  to  keep  still,  and  get 
well." 

Desire  had  asked  her  mother,  before  this,  if  she  would 
care  very  much,  —  no,  she  did  not  mean  that,  —  if  she 
would  be  disappointed,  or  disapprove,  that  she  should  stay 
behind. 

"  Stay  behind  ?  Not  go  to  Europe  ?  Why,  where 
could  you  stay  ?  What  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  There  would  be  things  to  do,  and  places  to  stay," 
Desire  had  answered,  constrainedly.  "  I  could  do  like 
Dorris." 

"  Teach  music  !  " 

"  No.  I  don't  know  music.  But  I  might  teach  some- 
thing I  do  know.  Or  I  could  —  rip,"  she  said,  with  an 
odd  smile,  remembering  something  she  had  said  one  day, 


INSIDE.  245 

so  long  ago;  the  day  the  news  came  up  to  Z from 

Uncle  Oldways.  "  And  I  might  make  out  to  put  together, 
for  other  people,  and  for  a  real  business.  I  never  cared 
to  do  it  just  for  myself." 

"  It  is  perfectly  absurd,"  said  Mrs  Ledwith.  "  You 
couldn't  be  left  to  take  care  of  yourself.  And  if  you  could, 
how  it  would  look  !  No  ;  of  course  you  must  go  with 
us." 

"  But  do  you  care  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  there  were  any  proper  way,  and  if  you 
really  hate  so  to  go,  —  but  there  isn't,"  said  Mrs.  Ledwith, 
not  very  grammatically  or  connectedly. 

"  She  doesn't  care,"  said  Desire  to  herself,  after  her 
mother  had  left  her,  turning  her  face  to  the  pillow,  upon 
which  two  tears  ran  slowly  down.  "  And  that  is  my  fault, 
too,  I  suppose.  I  have  never  been  anything  !  " 

Lying  there,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  one  thing.  She 
would  get  Uncle  Titus  to  come,  and  she  would  talk  to  him. 

"  He  won't  encourage  me  in  any  notions,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  And  I  mean  now,  if  I  can  find  it  out,  to  do  the 
thing  God  means  ;  and  then  I  suppose,  —  I  believe,  —  the 
snarl  will  begin  to  unwind." 

Meanwhile,  Luclarion,  when  she  had  set  a  nice  little 
bowl  of  tea-muffins  to  rise,  and  had  brought  up  a  fresh 
pitcher  of  ice-water  into  Desire's  room,  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  went  over  to  Aspen  Street  for  an  hour. 

Down  in  the  kitchen,  at  Mrs.  Ripwinkley's,  they  were 
having  a  nice  time. 

Their  girl  had  gone.  Since  Luclarion  left,  they  had 
fallen  into  that  Gulf-stream  which  nowadays  runs  through 
everybody's  kitchen.  Girls  came,  and  saw,  and  con- 
quered in  their  fashion ;  they  muddled  up,  and  went  away. 

The  nice  times  were  in  the  intervals  when  they  had 
gone  away. 


246  REAL    FOLKS. 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  did  not  complain  ;  it  was  only  her  end 
of  the  "sturnp;"  why  should  she  expect  to  have  a  Lu 
clarion  Grapp  to  serve  her  all  her  life  ? 

This  last  girl  had  gone  as  soon  as  she  found  out  that 
Sulie  Praile  was  "  no  relation,  and  didn't  anyways  belong 
there,  but  had  been  took  in."  She  "  didn't  go  for  to  come 
to  work  in  an  Insecution.  She  had  always  been  used  to 
first-class  private  families." 

Girls  will  not  stand  any  added  numbers,  voluntarily 
assumed,  or  even  involuntarily  befalling ;  they  will  assist 
in  taking  up  no  new  responsibilities  ;  to  allow  things  to  re- 
main as  they  are,  and  cannot  help  being,  is  the  depth  of 
their  condescension,  —  the  extent  of  what  they  will  put  up 
with.  There  must  be  a  family  of  some  sort,  of  course,  or 
there  would  not  be  a  "  place ;  "  that  is  what  the  family 
is  made  for ;  but  it  must  be  established,  no  more  to  fluc- 
tuate ;  that  is,  you  may  go  away,  some  of  you,  if  you  like, 
or  you  may  die  ;  but  nobody  must  come  home  that  has 
been  away,  and  nobody  must  be  born.  As  to  anybody 
being  "  took  in  !  "  Why,  the  girl  defined  it ;  it  was  not 
being  a  family,  but  an  Insecution. 

So  the  three  —  Diana,  and  Hazel,  and  Sulie  —  were 
down  in  the  kitchen ;  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  was  busy  in  the 
dining-room  close  by  ;  there  was  a  berry-cake  to  be  mixed 
up  for  an  early  tea.  Diana  was  picking  over  the  berries, 
Hazel  was  chopping  the  butter  into  the  flour,  and  Sulie 
on  a  low  cushioned  seat  in  a  corner  —  there  was  one 
kept  ready  for  her  in  every  room  in  the  house,  and  Hazel 
and  Diana  carried  her  about  in  an  "  arm-chair,"  made  of 
their  own  clasped  hands  and  wrists,  wherever  they  all 
wanted  to  go, — Sulie  was  beating  eggs. 

Sulie  did  that  so  patiently ;  you  see  she  had  no  tempta- 
tion to  jump  up  and  run  off  to  anything  else.  The  eggs 


INSIDE.  247 

turned,  under  her  fingers,  into  thick,  creamy,  golden  froth, 
fine  to  the  last  possible  divisibility  of  the  little  air-bubbles. 

They  could  not  do  without  Sulie  now.  They  had  had 
her  for  "  all  winter ; "  but  in  that  winter  she  had  grown 
into  their  home. 

"  Why,"  said  Hazel  to  her  mother,  when  they  had  the 
few  words  about  it  that  ended  in  there  being:  no  more 

o 

words  at  all,  —  "  that's  the  way  children  are  born  into 
houses,  isn't  it  ?  They  just  come  ;  and  they're  new  and 
strange  at  first,  and  seem  so  queer.  And  then  after  a 
while  you  can't  think  how  the  places  were,  and  they  not 
in  them.  Sulie  belongs,  mother !  " 

So  Sulie  beat  eggs,  and  darned  stockings,  and  painted 
her  lovely  little  flower-panels  and  racks  and  easels,  and  did 
everything  that  could  be  done,  sitting  still  in  her  round 
chair,  or  in  the  cushioned  corners  made  for  her ;  and  was 
always  in  the  kitchen,  above  all,  when  any  pretty  little 
cookery  was  going  forward. 

Vash  ran  in  and  out  from  the  garden,  and  brought  bal- 
samine  blossoms,  from  which  she  pulled  the  little  fairy  slip- 
pers, and  tried  to  match  them  in  pairs  ;  and  she  picked  off 
the  "  used-up  and  puckered-up  "  morning  glories,  which 
she  blew  into  at  the  tube-end,  and  "  snapped  "  on  the  back 
of  her  little  brown  hand. 

Wasn't  that  being  good  for  anything,  while  beriy-cake 
was  making  ?  The  girls  thought  it  was  ;  as  much  as  the 
balsamine  blossoms  were  good  for  anything,  or  the  brown 
butterflies  with  golden  spots  on  their  wings,  that  came  and 
lived  among  them.  The  brown  butterflies  were  a  "piece 
of  the  garden  ;  "  little  brown  Vash  was  a  piece  of  the  house. 
Besides,  she  would  eat  some  of  the  berry-cake  when  it  was 
made  ;  wasn't  that  worth  while?  She  would  have  a  "  lit- 
tle teenty  one  "  baked  all  for  herself  in  a  tin  'pepper-pot 


248  REAL  POLKS. 

cover.     Isn't  that  the  special  pleasantness  of  making  cakes 
where  little  children  are  ? 

Vash  was  always  ready  for  an  "  Aaron,"  too ;  they 
could  not  do  without  her,  any  more  than  without  Sulie. 
Pretty  soon,  when  Diana  should  have  left  school,  and 
Vash  should  be  a  little  bigger,  they  meant  to  "  cooperate," 
as  the  Holabirds  had  done  at  Westover. 

Of  course,  they  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  Holabirds 
by  this  time.  Hazel  had  stayed  a  week  with  Dorris  at  Miss 
Waite's ;  and  one  of  Witch  Hazel's  weeks  among  "  real 
folks  "  was  like  the  days  or  hours  in  fairy  land,  that  were 
years  on  the  other  side.  She  found  out  so  much  and  grew 
so  close  to  people. 

Hazel  and  Ruth  Holabird  were  warm  friends.  And 
Hazel  was  to  be  Ruth's  bridesmaid,  by  and  by  ! 

For  Ruth  Holabird  was  going  to  be  married  to  Dakie 
Thayne. 

"  That  seemed  so  funny,"  Hazel  said.  "  Ruth  didn't 
look  any  older  than  she  did  ;  and  Mr.  Dakie  Thayne  was 
such  a  nice  boy !  " 

He  was  no  less  a  man,  either ;  he  had  graduated  among 
the  first  three  at  West  Point ;  he  was  looking  earnestly 
for  the  next  thing  that  he  should  do  in  life  with  his  powers 
and  responsibilities  ;  he  did  not  count  his  marrying  a  sep- 
arate thing ;  that  had  grown  up  alongside  and  with  the 
rest ;  of  course  he  could  do  nothing  without  Ruth  ;  that 
was  just  what  he  had  told  her  ;  and  she,  —  well  Ruth  was 
always  a  sensible  little  thing,  and  it  was  just  as  plain  to 
her  as  it  was  to  him.  Of  course  she  must  help  him  think 
and  plan ;  and  when  the  plans  were  made,  it  would  take 
two  to  carry  them  out ;  why,  yes,  they  must  be  married. 
What  other  way  would  there  be  ? 

That  wasn't  what  she  said,  but  that  was  the  quietly 


INSIDE.  249 

natural  and  happy  way  in  which  it  grew  to  be  a  recognized 
thing  in  her  mind,  that  pleasant  summer  after  he  came 
straight  home  to  them  with  his  honors  and  his  lieutenant's 
commission  in  the  Engineers ;  and  his  hearty,  affectionate 
taking-for-granted ;  and  it  was  no  surprise  or  question 
with  her,  only  a  sure  and  very  beautiful  "  Tightness," 
when  it  came  openly  about. 

Dakie  Thayne  was  a  man  ;  the  beginning  of  a  very 
noble  one  ;  but  it  is  the  noblest  men  that  always  keep  a 
something  of  the  boy.  If  you  had  not  seen  anything 
more  of  Dakie  Thayne  until  he  should  be  forty  years  old, 
you  would  then  see  something  in  him  which  would  be 
precisely  the  same  that  it  was  at  Outledge,  seven  years 
ago,  with  Leslie  Goldthwaite,  and  among  the  Holabirds  at 
Westover,  in  his  first  furlough  from  West  Point. 

Luclarion  came  into  the  Ripwinkley  kitchen  just  as  the 
cakes — the  little  pepper-pot  one  and  all  —  were  going 
triumphantly  into  the  oven,  and  Hazel  was  baring  her 
little  round  arms  to  wash  the  dishes,  while  Diana  tended 
the  pans. 

Mrs.  Ripwinkley  heard  her  old  friend's  voice,  and  came 
out. 

"  That  girl  ought  to  be  here  with  you ;  or  somewheres 
else  than  where  she  is,  or  is  likely  to  be  took,"  said  Lucla- 
rion, as  she  looked  round  and  sat  down,  and  untied  her 
bonnet-strings. 

Miss  Grapp  hated  bonnet-strings  ;  she  never  endured 
them  a  minute  longer  than  she  could  help. 

"  Desire  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  easily  comprehend- 
ing. 

"  Yes ;  Desire.  I  tell  you  she  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe, 
and  she  wants  comforting.  She  wants  to  know  if  it  is  her 
duty  to  go  to  Yourup  with  her  mother.  Now  it  may  be 


250  REAL   FOLKS. 

her  duty  to  be  willing  to  go ;  but  it  ain't  anybody's  else 
duty  to  let  her.  That's  what  came  to  me  as  I  was  coming 
along.  I  couldn't  tell  her  so,  you  see,  because  it  would 
interfere  with  her  part ;  and  that's  all  in  the  tune  as  much 
as  any  ;  only  we've  got  to  chime  in  with  our  parts  at  the 
right  stroke,  the  Lord  being  Leader.  Ain't  that  about  it, 
Mrs.  Ripwinkley?" 

"  If  we  are  sure  of  the  score,  and  can  catch  the  sign," 
said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley,  thoughtfully. 

"  Well,  I've  sung  mine  ;  it's  only  one  note  ;  I  may  have 
to  keep  hammering  on  it ;  that's  according  to  how  many 
repeats  there  are  to  be.  Mr.  Oldways,  he  ought  to  know, 
for  one.  Amongst  us,  we  have  got  to  lay  our  heads  to- 
gether, and  work  it  out.  She's  a  kind  of  an  odd  chicken 
in  that  brood ;  and  my  belief  is  she's  like  the  ugly  duck 
Hazel  used  to  read  about.  But  she  ought  to  have  a 
chance  ;  if  she's  a  swan,  she  oughtn't  to  be  trapesed  off 
among  the  weeds  and  on  the  dry  ground.  'Tisn't  even 
ducks  she's  hatched  with  ;  they  don't  take  to  the  same 
element." 

"  I'll  speak  to  Uncle  Titus,  and  I  will  think,"  said  Mrs. 
Ripwinkley. 

But  before  she  did  that,  that  same  afternoon  by  the  six 
o'clock  penny  post,  a  little  note  went  to  Mr.  Oldways :  — 

"  DKAR  UNCLE  TITUS,  — 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you  a  little.  If  I  were  well,  I 
should  come  to  see  you  in  your  study.  Will  you  come 
up  here,  and  see  me  in  my  room  ? 

"  Yours  sincerely,  DESIRE  LEDWITH." 

Uncle  Titus  liked  that.  It  counted  upon  something  in 
him  which  few  had  the  faith  to  count  upon  ;  which,  truly, 
he  gave  few  people  reason  to  expect  to  find. 


INSIDE.  251 

He  put  his  hat  directly  on,  took  up  his  thick  brown 
stick,  and  trudged  off,  up  Borden  Street  to  Shubarton 
Place. 

When  Luclarion  let  him  in,  he  told  her  with  some  care- 
ful emphasis,  that  he  had  come  to  see  Desire. 

"  Ask  her  if  I  shall  come  up,"  he  said.  "  I'll  wait 
down  here." 

Helena  was  practicing  in  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Led- 
with  lay,  half  asleep,  upon  a  sofa.  The  doors  into  the  hall 
were  shut,  —  Luclarion  had  looked  to  that,  lest  the  playing; 
should  disturb  Desire. 

Luclarion  was  only  gone  three  minutes.  Then  she  came 
back,  and  led  Mr.  Oldways  up  three  flights  of  stairs. 

"  It's  a  long  climb,  clear  from  the  door,"  she  said. 

"I  can  climb,"  said  Mr.  Oldways,  curtly. 

" I  didn't  expect  it  was  going  to  stump  you"  said  Lu- 
clarion, just  as  short  in  her  turn.  "  But  I  thought  I'd  be 
polite  enough  to  mention  it." 

There  came  a  queer  little  chuckling  wheeze  from  some- 
where, like  a  whispered  imitation  of  the  first  few  short' 
pants  of  a  steam-engine  :  that  was  Uncle  Titus,  laughing 
to  himself. 

Luclarion  looked  down  behind  her,  out  of  the  corner  of 
her  eyes,  as  she  turned  the  landing.  Uncle  Titus's  head 
was  dropped  between  his  shoulders,  and  his  shoulders 
were  shaking  up  and  down.  But  he  kept  his  big  stick 
clutched  by  the  middle,  in  one  hand,  and  the  other  just 
touched  the  rail  as  he  went  up.  Uncle  Titus  was  not  out 
of  breath.  Not  he.  He  could  laugh  and  climb. 

Desire  was  sitting  up  for  a  little  while,  before  going  to 
bed  again  for  the  night.  There  was  a  low  gas-light  burn- 
ing by  the  dressing-table,  ready  to  turn  up  when  the  twi- 
light should  be  gone  ;  and  a  street  lamp,  just  lighted,  shone 


252  REAL   FOLKS. 

across  into  the  room.  Luclarion  had  been  sitting  with 
her,  and  her  gray  knitting-work  lay  upon  the  chair  that 
she  offered  when  she  had  picked  it  up,  to  Mr.  Oldways. 
Then  she  went  away  and  left  them  to  their  talk. 

"  Mrs.  Ripwinkley  has  been  spry  about  it,"  she  said  to 
herself,  going  softly  down  the  stairs.  "  But  she  always 
was  spry." 

"  You're  getting  well,  I  hope,"  said  Uncle  Titus,  seat- 
ing himself,  after  he  had  given  Desire  his  hand. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Desire,  quietly.  "  That  was  why 
I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  want  to  know  what  I  ought  to  do 
when  I  am  well." 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  asked  Uncle  Titus,  bluntly. 

"  Better  than  anybody  I  can  ask.  The  rest  are  all  too 
sympathizing.  I  am  afraid  they  would  tell  me  as  I  wish 
they  should." 

"  And  I  don't  sympathize  ?  Well,  I  don't  think  I  do 
much.  I  haven't  been  used  to  it." 

"  You  have  been  used  to  think  what  was  right ;  and  I 
believe  you  would  tell  me  truly.  I  want  to  know  whether 
I  ought  to  go  to  Europe  with  my  mother." 

"  Why  not  ?  Doesn't  she  want  you  to  go  ?  "  —  and 
Uncle  Titus  was  sharp  this  time. 

"  I  suppose  so ;  that  is,  I  suppose  she  expects  I  will. 
But  I  don't  know  that  I  should  be  much  except  a  hin- 
drance to  her.  And  I  think  I  could  stay  and  do  some- 
thing here,  in  some  way.  Uncle  Titus,  I  hate  the  thought 
of  going  to  Europe  !  Now,  don't  you  suppose  I  ought  to 
go?" 

"  Why  do  you  hate  the  thought  of  going  to  Europe  ?  " 
asked  Uncle  Titus,  regarding  her  with  keenness. 

"  Because  I  have  never  done  anything  real  in  all  my 
life  !  "  broke  forth  Desire.  "  And  this  seems  only  plaster- 


UNCLE  TITUS  AND  DESIRE.     S«e  p.  253. 


INSIDE.  253 

ing  and  patching  what  can't  be  patched.  I  want  to 
take  hold  of  something.  I  don't  want  to  float  round  any 
more.  What  is  there  left  of  all  we  have  ever  tried  to  do, 
all  these  years  ?  Of  all  my  poor  father's  work,  what  is 
there  to  show  for  it  now  ?  It  has  all  melted  away  as  fast 
as  it  came,  like  snow  on  pavements  ;  and  now  his  life  has 
melted  away ;  and  I  feel  as  if  we  had  never  been  anything 
real  to  each  other !  Uncle  Titus,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
feel !  " 

Uncle  Titus  sat  very  still.  His  hat  was  in  one  hand, 
and  both  together  held  his  cane,  planted  on  the  floor  be- 
tween his  feet.  Over  hat  and  cane  leaned  his  gray  head, 
thoughtfully.  If  Desire  could  have  seen  his  eyes,  she 
would  have  found  in  them  an  expression  that  she  had 
never  supposed  could  be  there  at  all. 

She  had  not  so  much  spoken  to  Uncle  Titus,  in  these 
last  words  of  hers,  as  she  had  irresistibly  spoken  out  that 
which  was  in  her.  She  wanted  Uncle  Titus's  good  com- 
mon sense  and  sense  of  right  to  help  her  decide  ;  but  the 
inward  ache  and  doubt  and  want,  out  of  which  grew  her 
indecisions,  —  these  showed  themselves  forth  at  that  mo- 
ment simply  because  they  must,  with  no  expectation  of  a 
response  from  him.  It  might  have  been  a  stone  wall  that 
she  cried  against ;  she  would  have  cried  all  the  same. 

Then  it  was  over,  and  she  was  half  ashamed,  thinking 
it  was  of  no  use,  and  he  would  not  understand  ;  perhaps 
that  he  would  only  set  the  whole  down  to  nerves  and 
fidgets  and  contrariness,  and  give  her  no  common  sense 
that  she  wanted,  after  all. 

But  Uncle  Titus  spoke,  slowly ;  much  as  if  he,  too, 
were  speaking  out  involuntarily,  without  thought  of  his 
auditor.  People  do  so  speak,  when  the  deep  things  are 
stirred ;  they  speak  into  the  deep  that  answereth  unto 


254  REAL    FOLKS. 

itself,  —  the  deep  that  reacheth  through  all  souls,  and  all 
living,  whether  souls  feel  into  it  and  know  of  it  or  not. 
"  The    real    things   are  inside,"   he    said.     "  The   real 

O  ' 

world  is  the  inside  world.  Grod  is  not  up,  nor  down,  but 
in  the  midst." 

Then  he  looked  up  at  Desire. 

"  What  is  real  of  your  life  is  living  inside  you  now. 
That  is  something.  Look  at  it  and  see  what  it  is." 

"  Discontent.     Misery.     Failure." 

"  Sense  of  failure.  Well.  Those  are  good  things. 
The  beginning  of  better.  Those  are  live  things,  at  any 
rate." 

Desire  had  never  thought  of  that. 

Now  she  sat  still  awhile. 

Then  she  said,  —  "  But  we  can't  be  much,  without  do- 
ing it.  I  suppose  we  are  put  into  a  world  of  outside  s  for 
something." 

"  Yes.  To  find  out  what  it  means.  That's  the  inside 
of  it.  And  to  help  make  the  outside  agree  with  the  in,  so 
that  it  will  be  easier  for  other  people  to  find  out.  That  is 
the  '  kingdom  come  and  will  be  done,  on  earth  as  it  is  in 
heaven.'  Heaven  is  the  inside,  —  the  truth  of  things." 

"Why,  I  never  knew" — began  Desire,  astonished. 
She. had  almost  finished  aloud,  as  her  mother  had  done  in 
her  own  mind.  She  never  knew  that  Uncle  Old  ways  was 
"  pious." 

"Never  knew  that  was  what  it  meant  ?  What  else  can 
it  mean  ?  What  do  you  suppose  the  resurrection  was,  or 
is?" 

Desire  answered  with  a  yet  larger  look  of  wonder,  only 
in  the  dim  light  it  could  not  be  wholly  seen. 

"The  raising  up  of  the  dead  ;  Christ  coming  up  out  of 
•the  tomb." 


INSIDE.  255 

"  The  coming  out  of  the  tomb  was  a  small  part  of  it ; 
just  what  could  not  help  being,  if  the  rest  was.  Jesus 
Christ  rose  out  of  dead  things,  I  take  it,  into  these  very 
real  ones  that  we  are  talking  of,  and  so  lived  in  them. 
The  resurrection  is  a  man's  soul  coming  alive  to  the  soul 
of  creation  —  God's  soul.  That  is  eternal  life,  and  what 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  born  to  show.  Our  coming  to  that 
is  our  being  '  raised  with  Him  ; '  and  it  begins,  or  ought  to, 
a  long  way  this  side  the  tomb.  If  people  would  only  read 
the  New  Testament,  expecting  to  get  as  much  common 
sense  and  earnest  there  as  they  do  among  the  new  lights 
and  little  '  progressive-thinkers  '  that  are  trying  to  find 
it  all  out  over  again,  they  might  spare  these  gentlemen 
and  themselves  a  great  deal  of  their  trouble." 

The  exclamation  rose  half-way  to  her  lips  again,  —  "I 
never  knew  you  thought  like  this.  I  never  heard  you  talk 
of  these  things  before  !  " 

But  she  held  it  back,  because  she  would  not  stop  him  by 
reminding  him  that  he  was  talking.  It  was  just  the  truth 
that  was  saying  itself.  She  must  let  it  say  on,  while  it 
would. 

"  Un  —  " 

She  stopped  there,  at  the  first  syllable.  She  would  not 
even  call  him  "  Uncle  Titus  "  again,  for  fear  of  recalling 
him  to  himself,  and  hushing  him  up. 

"There  is  something — isn't  there  —  about  those  who 
attain  to  that  resurrection  ;  those  who  are  worthy  ?  I 
suppose  there  must  be  some  who  are  just  born  to  this 
world,  then,  and  never  —  *  born  again  ?  ' ' 

"  It  looks  like  it,  sometimes  ;  who  can  tell  ?  " 

"  Uncle  Old  ways,"  —  it  came  out  this  time  in  her  ear- 
nestness, and  her  strong  personal  appeal,  — "  do  you 
think  there  are  some  people  —  whole  families  of  people  — 


256  REAL    FOLKS. 

who  have  no  business  in  the  reality  of  things  to  be  at  all  ? 
Who  are  all  a  mistake  in  the  world,  and  have  nothing  to 
do  with  its  meaning  ?  I  have  got  to  feeling  sometimes 
lately,  as  if — / — had  never  had  any  business  to  be.'* 

She  spoke  slowly  —  awe-fully.  It  was  a  strange  speech 
for  a  girl  in  her  nineteenth  year.  But  she  was  a  girl  in 
this  nineteenth  century,  also  ;  and  she  had  caught  some  of 
the  thoughts  and  questions  of  it,  and  mixed  them  up  with 
her  own  doubts  and  unsatisfactions  which  they  could  not 
answer. 

"  The  world  is  full  of  mistakes ;  mistakes  centuries 
long ;  but  it  is  full  of  salvation  and  setting  to  rights,  also. 
4  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  like  leaven,  which  a  woman  hid 
in  three  measures  of  meal  till  the  whole  was  leavened.*  You 
have  been  allowed  to  be,  Desire  Ledwith.  And  so  was 
the  man  that  was  born  blind.  And  I  think  there  is  a  colon 
put  into  the  sentence  about  him,  where  a  comma  was 
meant  to  be." 

Desire  did  not  ask  him,  then,  what  he  meant ;  but  she 
turned  to  the  story  after  he  had  gone,  and  found  this :  — 

"  Neither  hath  this  man  sinned,  nor  his  parents,  but 
that  the  works  of  God  should  be  manifest  in  him." 

You  can  see,  if  you  look  also,  where  she  took  the  colon 
out,  and  put  the  comma  in. 

Were  all  the  mistakes  —  the  sins,  even  —  for  the  very 
sake  of  the  pure  blessedness  and  the  more  perfect  knowl- 
edge of  the  setting  right  ? 

Desire  began  to  think  that  Uncle  Oldways'  theology 
might  help  her. 

What  she  said  to  him  now  was,  — 

"  I  want  to  do  something.  I  should  like  to  go  and  live 
with  Luclarion,  I  think,  down  there  in  Neighbor  Street. 
I  should  like  to  take  hold  of  some  other  lives,  —  little  chil- 


INSIDE.  257 

dren's,  perhaps,"  —  and  here  Desire's  voice  softened,  — 
"  that  don't  seem  to  have  any  business  to  be,  either,  and 
see  if  I  could  help  or  straighten  anything.  Then  I  feel  as 
if  I  should  know." 

"  Then  —  according  to  the  Scripture  —  you  would 
know.  But  —  that's  undertaking  a  good  deal.  Luclarion 
Grapp  has  got  there  ;  but  she  has  been  fifty-odd  years 
upon  the  road.  And  she  has  been  doing  real  things  all 
the  time.  That's  what  has  brought  her  there.  You  can't 
boss  the  world's  hard  jobs  till  you've  been  a  journeyman; 
at  the  easy  ones." 

"  And  I've  missed  my  apprenticeship !  "  said  Desire, 
with  changed  voice  and  face,  falling  back  into  her  disheart- 
enment  again. 

"No!  "  Uncle  Oldways  almost  shouted.  "Not  if  you 
come  to  the  Master  who  takes  in  the  eleventh  hour  work- 
ers. And  it  isn't  the  eleventh  hour  with  you,  —  child !  " 

He  dwelt  on  that  word  "  child,"  reminding  her  of  her 
short  mistaking  and  of  the  long  retrieval.  Her  nineteen 
years  and  the  forever  and  ever  contrasted  themselves  be- 
fore her  suddenly,  in  the  light  of  hope. 

She  turned  sharply,  though,  to  look  at  her  duty.  Her 
journeyman's  duty  of  easy  things. 

"  Must  I  go  to  Europe  with  my  mother  ?  "  she  asked 
again,  the  conversation  coming  round  to  just  that  with 
which  it  had  begun. 

"  I'll  talk  with  your  mother,"  said  Uncle  Oldways,  get- 
ting up  and  looking  into  his  hat,  as  a  man  always  does 
when  he  thinks  of  putting  it  on  presently.  "  Good-night. 
I  suppose  you  are  tired  enough  now.  I'll  come  again  and. 
see  you." 

Desire  stood  up  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  I  thank  you,  Uncle  Titus,  with  all  my  heart." 

17 


258  REAL    FOLKS. 

He  did  not  answer  her  a  word  ;  but  he  knew  she  meant 
it. 

He  did  not  stop  that  night  to  see  his  niece.  He  went 
home,  to  think  it  over.  But  as  he  walked  down  Borden 
Street,  swinging  his  big  stick,  he  said  to  himself,  — 

"  Next  of  kin  !  Old  Marmaduke  Wharne  was  right. 
But  it  takes  more  than  the  Family  Bible  to  tell  you  which 
it  is  !  " 

Two  days  after,  he  had  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Ledwith  which 
relieved  both  their  minds. 

From  the  brown-and-apricot  drawing  -  room,  —  from 
among  the  things  that  stood  for  nothing  now,  and  had 
never  stood  for  home,  —  he  went  straight  up,  without  ask- 
ing, and  knocked  at  Desire's  third-story  door. 

"  Come  in  !  "  she  said,  without  a  note  of  expectation  in 
her  voice. 

She  had  had  a  dull  morning.  .Helena  had  brought  her 
a  novel  from  Loring's  that  she  could  not  read.  Novels, 
any  more  than  life,  cannot  be  read  with  very  much  pa- 
tience, unless  they  touch  something  besides  surface.  Why 
do  critics  —  some  of  them  —  make  such  short,  smart  work, 
—  such  cheerful,  confident  despatch,  nowadays,  of  a  story 
with  religion  in  it,  as  if  it  were  an  abnormity,  —  a  thing 
with  sentence  of  death  in  itself,  like  a  calf  born  with  two 
heads,  —  that  needs  not  their  trouble,  save  to  name  it  as  it 
is  ?  Why,  that  is,  if  religion  stand  for  the  relation  of 
things  to  spirit,  which  I  suppose  it  should?  Somebody 
said  that  somebody  had  written  a  book  made  up  of  "  spirit- 
ual struggles  and  strawberry  short-cake."  That  was  bright 
and  funny  ;  and  it  seemed  to  settle  the  matter ;  but,  tak- 
ing strawberry  short-cake  representatively,  what  else  is 
human  experience  on  earth  made  up  of?  And  are  novels 
to  be  pictures  of  human  experience,  or  not  ? 


INSIDE.  259 

This  has  nothing  to  do  with  present  matters,  however, 
except  that  Desire  found  nothing  real  in  her  novel,  and  so 
had  flung  it  aside,  and  was  sitting  rather  listlessly  with  her 
crochet  which  she  never  cared  much  for,  when  Uncle  Old- 
ways  entered, 

Her  face  brightened  instantly  as  he  came  in.  He  sat 
down  just  where  he  had  sat  the  other  night.  Mr.  Oldways 
had  a  fashion  of  finding  the  same  seat  a  second  time  when 
he  had  come  in  once  ;  he  was  a  man  who  took  up  most 
things  where  he  left  them  off,  and  this  was  an  unconscious 
sign  of  it. 

"  Your  mother  has  decided  to  sell  the  house  on  the  23d, 
it  seems,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  I  have  been  out  twice.  I  shall  be  able  to  go 
awajr  by  then  ;  I  suppose  that  is  all  she  has  waited  for." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  be  contented  to  come  and  live 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Come  and  live  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  let  your  mother  and  Helena  go  to  Eu- 
rope." 

"  O,  Uncle  Oldways !  I  think  I  could  rest  there  !  But 
I  don't  want  only  to  rest,  you  know.  I  must  do  some- 
thing. For  myself,  to  begin  with.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  depend  upon  my  mother.  Why  should  I, 
any  more  than  a  boy  ?  And  I  am  sure  I  cannot  depend 
on  anybody  else." 

These  were  Desire  Ledwith's  thanks  ;  and  Mr.  Old- 
ways  liked  them.  She  did  not  say  it  to  please  him ;  she 
thought  it  seemed  almost  ungrateful  and  unwilling;  but 
she  was  so  intent  on  taking  up  life  for  herself. 

"  You  must  have  a  place  to  do  in,  —  or  from,"  said  Mr. 
Oldways.  "  And  it  is  better  you  should  be  under  some 
protection.  You  must  consent  to  that  for  your  mother's 
sake.  How  much  money  have  you  got  ?  " 


260  REAL  FOLKS. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year.     Of  my  own." 

This  was  coming  to  business  and  calculation  and  com- 
mon sense.  Desire  was  encouraged.  Uncle  Oldways  did 
not  think  her  quite  absurd. 

"  That  will  clothe  you,  —  without  much  fuss  and  feath- 
ers?" 

"  I  have  done  with  fuss  and  feathers,"  —  Desire  said  with 
a  grave  smile,  glancing  at  her  plain  white  wrapper  and  the 
black  shawl  that  was  folded  around  her. 

"  Then  come  where  is  room  for  you  and  a  welcome, 
and  do  as  much  more  as. you  please,  and  can,  for  yourself, 
or  for  anybody  else.  I  won't  give  you  a  cent ;  you  shall 
have  something  to  do  for  me,  if  you  choose.  I  am  an  old 
man  now,  and  want  help.  Perhaps  what  I  want  as  much 
as  anything  is  what  I've  been  all  my  life  till  lately,  pretty 
obstinate  in  doing  without." 

Uncle  Oldways  spoke  short,  and  drew  his  breath  in  and 
puffed  it  out  between  his  sentences,  in  his  bluff  way  ;  but 
his  eyes  were  kind,  as  he  sat  looking  at  the  young  girl  over 
his  hat  and  cane. 

She  thought  of  the  still,  gray  parlor  ;  of  Rachel  Froke 
and  her  face  of  peace ;  and  the  Quaker  meeting  and  the 
crumbs  last  year ;  of  Uncle  Oldways'  study,  and  his 
shelves  rich  with  books  ;  of  the  new  understanding  that 
had  begun  between  herself  and  him,  and  the  faith  she  had 
found  out,  down  beneath  his  hard  reserves  ;  of  the  beau- 
tiful neighborhood,  Miss  Craydocke's  Beehive,  Aunt 
Franks'  cheery  home  and  the  ways  of  it,  and  Hazel's  run- 
nings in  and  out.  It  seemed  as  if  the  real  things  had 
opened  for  her,  and  a  place  been  made  among  them  in 
which  she  should  have  "  business  to  be,"  and  from  which 
her  life  might  make  a  new  setting  forth. 

"  And  mamma  knows  ?  "  she  said,  inquiringly,  after  that 
long  pause. 


INSIDE.  261 

"  Yes.  I  told  you  I  would  talk  with  her.  That  is 
what  we  came  to.  It  is  only  for  you  to  say,  now." 

"  I  will  come.  I  shall  be  glad  to  come  !  "  And  her 
face  was  full  of  light  as  she  looked  up  and  said  it. 

Desire  never  thought  for  a  moment  of  what  her  mother 
could  not  help  thinking  of;  of  what  Mrs.  Megilp  thought 
and  said,  instantly,  when  she  learned  it  three  weeks  later. 

It  is  wonderful  how  abiding  influence  is,  —  even  influ- 
ence to  which  we  are  secretly  superior, — if  ever  we  have 
been  subjected  to,  or  allowed  ourselves  to  be  swayed  by  it. 
The  veriest  tyranny  of  discipline  grows  into  one's  con- 
science, until  years  after,  when  life  has  got  beyond  the 
tyranny,  conscience,  —  or  something  superinduced  upon  it, 
—  keeps  up  the  echo  of  the  old  mandates,  and  one  can  take 
no  comfort  in  doing  what  one  knows  all  the  time  one  has 
a  perfect  right,  besides  sound  reason,  to  do.  It  was  a  great 
while  before  our  grandmothers'  daughters  could  peaceably 
•,titch  and  overcast  a  seam,  instead  of  over-sewing  and  fell- 
ing it.  I  know  women  who  feel  to  this  moment  as  if  to 
git  down  and  read  a  book  of  a  week-day,  in  the  daytime, 
were  playing  truant  to  the  needle,  though  all  the  sewing- 
machines  on  the  one  hand,  and  all  the  demand  and  supply 
of  mental  culture  on  the  other,  of  this  present  changed 
and  bettered  time,  protest  together  against  the  absurdity. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  had  heard  the  Megilp  precepts  and  the 
Megilp  forth-putting  of  things,  until  involuntarily  every- 
thing showed  itself  to  her  in  a  Megilp  light.  The  Megilp 
"  sense  of  duty,"  therefore,  came  up  as  she  unhesita- 
tingly assented  to  Uncle  Old  ways'  proposal  and  request. 
He  wanted  Desire  ;  of  course  she  could  not  say  a  word  ; 
she  owed  him  something,  which  she  was  glad  she  could  so 
make  up ;  and  secretly  there  whispered  in  her  mind  the 


262  REAL    FOLKS. 

suggestion  which  Mrs.  Megilp,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water,  spoke  right  out. 

"  If  he  wants  her,  he  must  mean  something  by  her.  He 
is  an  old  man  ;  he  might  not  live  to  give  her  back  into  her 
mother's  keeping ;  what  would  she  do  there,  in  that  old 
house  of  his,  if  he  should  die,  unless  —  he  does  mean 
something  ?  He  has  taken  a  fancy  to  her  ;  she  is  odd,  as 
he  is ;  and  he  isn't  so  queer  after  all,  but  that  his  crotchets 
have  a  good,  straightforward  sense  of  justice  in  them. 
Uncle  Titus  knows  what  he  is  about ;  and  what's  more, 
just  what  he  ought  to  be  about.  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
have  Desire  provided  for ;  she  is  uncomfortable  and  full  of 
notions,  and  she  isn't  likely  ever  to  be  married." 

So  Desire  was  given  up,  easily,  she  could  not  help  feel- 
ing ;  but  she  knew  she  had  been  a  puzzle  and  a  vexation 
to  her  mother,  and  that  Mrs.  Ledwith  had  never  had  the 
least  idea  what  to  do  with  her ;  least  of  all  had  she  now, 
what  she  should  do  with  her  abroad. 

"  It  was  so  much  better  for  her  that  Uncle  Titus  had 
taken  her  home."  With  these  last  words  Mrs.  Ledwith 
reassured  herself  and  cheered  her  child. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  the  same  —  it  came  into 
Desire's  head,  that  would  conceive  strange  things  —  if 
the  angels  had  taken  her. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  went  to  New  York ;  she  stayed  a  few- 
days  with  Mrs.  Macmichael,  who  wanted  her  to  buy  lace 
for  her  in  Brussels  and  Bohemian  glass  in  Prague ;  then 
a  few  days  more  with  her  cousin,  Geraldine  Raxley ;  and 
then  the  City  of  Antwerp  sailed. 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OF   KIN.  263 

XX. 

NEIGHBORS    AND    NEXT   OF   KIN. 

"  T'LL  tell  you  what  to  do  with  them,  Luclarion,"  said 

-•-     Hazel  briskly.     "  Teach  them  to  play." 

"  Music  !     Planners  !  "  exclaimed  Luclarion,  dismayed. 

"  No.  Games.  Teach  them  to  have  good  times.  That 
was  the  first  thing  ever  we  learnt,  wasn't  it,  Dine  ?  And 
we  never  could  have  got  along  without  it." 

"It  takes  you!"  said  Luclarion,  looking  at  Hazel  with 
delighted  admiration. 

"  Does  it  ?  Well  I  don't  know  but  it  does.  May  I 
go,  mother  ?  Luclarion,  haven't  you  got  a  great  big  empty 
room  up  at  the  top  of  the  house  ?  " 

Luclarion  had. 

"  That's  just  what  it's  for,  then.  Couldn't  Mr.  Gallilee 
put  up  a  swing  ?  And  a  '  flying  circle '  in  the  middle  ? 
You  see  they  can't  go  out  on  the  roofs ;  so  they  must  have 
something  else  that  will  seem  kind  of  flighty.  And  Til 
tell  you  how  they'll  learn  their  letters.  Sulie  and  I  will 
paint  'em ;  great  big  ones,  all  colors ;  and  hang  'em  up 
with  ribbons,  and  every  child  that  learns  one,  so  as  to 
know  it  everywhere,  shall  take  it  down  and  carry  it  home. 
Then  we  will  have  marbles  for  numbers  ;  and  they  shall 
play  addition  games,  and  multiplication  games,  and  get  the 
sums  for  prizes  ;  the  ones  that  get  to  the  head,  you  know. 
Why,  you  don't  understand  objects,  Luclarion !  " 

Luclarion  had  been  telling  them  of  the  wild  little  folk 
of  Neighbor  Street,  and  worse,  of  Arctic  Street.  She 
wanted  to  do  something  with  them.  She  had  tried  to  get 


264  REAL    FOLKS. 

them  in  with  gingerbread  and  popcorn  ;  they  came  in 
fast  enough  for  those  ;  but  they  would  not  stay.  They 
were  digging  in  the  gutters  and  calling  names ;  learning 
the  foul  language  of  the  places  into  which  they  were 
born ;  chasing  and  hiding  in  alley-ways  ;  filching,  if  they 
could,  from  shops  ;  going  off  begging  with  lies  on  their  lips. 
It  was  terrible  to  see  the  springs  from  which  the  life 
of  the  city  depths  was  fed. 

"  If  you  could  stop  it  there  !  "  Luclarion  said,  and  said 
with  reason. 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  ?  "  asked  Hazel  of  her  mother,  in 
good  earnest. 

"  'Twon't  hurt  her,"  put  in  Luclarion.  "  Nothing's 
catching  that  you  haven't  got  the  seeds  of  in  your  own  con- 
stitution. And  so  the  catching  will  be  the  other  way." 

The  seeds  of  good,  —  to  catch  good  ;  that  was  what  Lu- 
clarion Grapp  believed  in,  in  those  dirty  little  souls,  —  no, 
those  clean  little  souls,  overlaid  with  all  outward  mire  and 
filth  of  body,  clothing,  speech,  and  atmosphere,  for  a  mile 
about ;  through  which  they  could  no  more  grope  and  pene- 
trate, to  reach  their  own  that  was  hidden  from  them  in 
the  clearer  life  beyond,  than  we  can  grope  and  reach  to 
other  stars. 

"  I  will  get  Desire,"  quoth  Hazel,  inspired  as  she  always 
was,  both  ways. 

Running  in  at  the  house  in  Greenley  Street  the  next 
Thursday,  she  ran  against  Uncle  Titus  coming  out. 

"  What  now  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Desire,"  said  Hazel.  "  I've  come  for  her.  We're 
wanted  at  Luclarion's.  We've  got  work  to  do." 

"  Humph  !     Work  ?     What  kind  ?  " 

"  Play,"  said  Hazel,  laughing.  She  delighted  to  bother 
and  mystify  Uncle  Titus,  and  imagined  that  she  did. 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OP   KIN.  265 

"  I  thought  so.     Tea  parties  ?  " 

"  Something  like,"  said  Hazel.  "  There  are  children 
down  there  that  don't  know  how  to  grow  up.  They 
haven't  any  comfortable  sort  of  fashion  of  growing  up. 
Somebody  has  got  to  teach  them.  They  don't  know  how 
to  play  '  Grand  Mufti,'  and  they  never  heard  of  '  King 
George  and  his  troops.'  Luclarion  tried  to  make  them 
sit  still  and  learn  letters  ;  but  of  course  they  wouldn't  a 
minute  longer  than  the  gingerbread  lasted,  and  they  are 
eating  her  out  of  house  and  home.  It  will  take  young 
folks,  and  week-days,  you  see  ;  so  Desire  and  I  are  going." 
And  Hazel  ran  up  the  great,  flat-stepped  staircase. 

"  Lives  that  have  no  business  to  be,"  said  Uncle  Titus 
to  himself,  going  down  the  brick  walk.  "  The  Lord  has 
His  own  ways  of  bringing  lives  together.  And  His  own 
business  gets  worked  out  among  them,  beyond  their  guess- 
ing. When  a  man  grows  old,  he  can  stand  still  now  and 
then,  and  see  a  little." 

It  was  a  short  cross  street  that  Luclarion  lived  in,  be- 
tween two  great  thoroughfares  crowded  with  life  and  busi- 
ness, bustle,  drudgery,  idleness,  and  vice.  You  will  not 
find  the  name  I  give  it,  —  although  you  may  find  one  that 
will  remind  you  of  it,  —  in  any  directory  or  on  any  city 
map.  But  you  can  find  the  places  without  the  names ; 
and  if  you  go  down  there  with  the  like  errands  in  your 
heart,  you  will  find  the  work,  as  she  found  it,  to  do. 

She  heard  the  noise  of  street  brawls  at  night,  voices  of 
men  and  women  quarreling  in  alley-ways,  and  up  in 
wretched  garrets  ;  flinging  up  at  each  other,  in  horrible 
words,  all  the  evil  they  knew  of  in  each  other's  lives,  — 
"  away  back,"  Luclarion  said,  "  to  when  they  were  little 
children." 

"  And  what  is  it,"  she  would  say  to  Mrs.  Ripwinkley, 


266  REAL    FOLKS. 

telling  her  about  it,  "  that  flings  it  up,  and  can  call  it  a 
shame,  after  all  the  shames  of  years  and  years  ?  Except 
just  that  that  the  little  children  were,  underneath,  when 
the  Lord  let  them  —  He  knows  why  —  be  born  so  ?  I 
tell  you,  ma'am,  it's  a  mystery ;  and  the  nigher  you  come 
to  it,  the  more  it  is  ;  it's  a  piece  of  hell  and  a  piece  of 
heaven ;  it's  the  wrastle  of  the  angel  and  the  dragon  ;  and 
it's  going  on  at  one  end,  while  they're  building  up  their 
palaces  and  living  soft  and  sweet  and  clean  at  the  other, 
with  everything  hushed  up  that  can't  at  least  seem  right 
and  nice  and  proper.  I  know  there's  good  folks  there,  in 
the  palaces ;  beautiful  folks  ;  there,  and  all  the  way  down 
between ;  with  God's  love  in  them,  and  His  hate,  that  is 
holy,  against  sin  ;  and  His  pity,  that  is  prayers  in  them,  for 
all  people  and  places  that  are  dark ;  but  if  they  would 
come  down  there,  and  take  hold  !  I  think  it's  them  that 
would,  that  might  have  part  in  the  first  resurrection,  and 
live  and  reign  the  thousand  years." 

Luclarion  never  counted  herself  among  them,  —  those 
who  were  to  have  thrones  and  judgments  ;  she  forgot,  even, 
that  she  had  gone  down  and  taken  hold  ;  her  words  came 
burning-true,  out  of  her  soul ;  and  in  the  heat  of  truth  they 
were  eloquent. 

But  I  meant  to  tell  you  of  her  living. 

In  the  daytime  it  was  quiet ;  the  gross  evils  crept  away 
and  hid  from  the  sunshine  ;  there  was  labor  to  take  up 
the  hours,  for  those  who  did  labor ;  and  you  might  not 
know  or  guess,  to  go  down  those  avemies,  that  anything 
worse  gathered  there  than  the  dust  of  the  world's  traffic 
that  the  lumbering  drays  ground  up  continually  with 
their  wheels,  and  the  wind,  —  that  came  into  the  city  from 
far  away  country  places  of  green  sweetness,  and  over  hills 
and  ponds  and  streams  and  woods,  —  flung  into  the  little 
children's  faces. 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OP   KIN.  267 

Luclarion  had  taken  a  house,  —  one  of  two,  that 
fronted  upon  a  little  planked  court ;  aside,  somewhat,  from 
Neighbor  Street,  as  that  was  a  slight  remove  from  the  ab- 
solute terrible  contact  of  Arctic  Street.  But  it  was  in  the 
heart  of  that  miserable  quarter ;  she  could  reach  out  her 
hands  and  touch  and  gather  in,  if  it  would  let  her,  the 
wretchedness.  She  had  chosen  a  place  where  it  was  possi- 
ble for  her  to  make  a  nook  of  refuge,  not  for  herself  only, 
or  so  much,  as  for  those  to  whom  she  would  fain  be  neigh- 
bor, and  help  to  a  better  living. 

It  had  been  once  a  dwelling  of  some  well-to-do  family 
of  the  days  gone  by  ;  of  some  merchant,  whose  ventures 
went  out  and  came  in  at  those  wharves  below,  whence  the 
air  swept  up  pure,  then,  with  its  salt  smell,  into  the 
streets.  The  rooms  were  fairly  large  ;  Luclarion  spent 
money  out  of  her  own  little  property,  that  had  been  grow- 
ing by  care  and  saving  till  she  could  spare  from  it,  in  do- 
ing her  share  toward  having  it  all  made  as  sweet  and  clean 
as  mortar  and  whitewash  and  new  pine-boards  and  paint 
and  paper  could  make  it.  All  that  was  left  of  the  old, 
they  scoured  with  carbolic  soap ;  and  she  had  the  windows 
opened,  and  in  the  chimneys  that  had  been  swept  of  their 
soot  she  had  clear  fires  made  and  kept  burning  for  days. 

Then  she  put  her  new,  plain  furnishings  into  her  own 
two  down-stairs  rooms  ;  and  the  Gallilees  brought  in  theirs 
above  ;  and  beside  them,  she  found  two  decent  families,  — 
a  German  paper-hanger's,  and  that  of  a  carpenter  at  one 
of  the  theatres,  whose  wife  worked  at  dressmaking,  —  to 
take  the  rest.  Away  up,  at  the  very  top,  she  had  the 
wide,  large  room  that  Hazel  spoke  of,  and  a  smaller  one  to 
which  she  climbed  to  sleep,  for  the  sake  of  air  as  near 
heaven  as  it  could  be  got. 

One  of  her  lower  rooms  was  her  living  and  housekeep- 


268  REAL    FOLKS. 

ing  room  ;  the  other  she  turned  into  a  little  shop,  in  which 
she  sold  tapes  and  needles  and  cheap  calicoes  and  a  few 
ribbons  ;  and  kept  a  counter  on  the  opposite  side  for  bread 
and  yeast,  gingerbread,  candy,  and  the  like.  She  did  this 
partly  because  she  must  do  something  to  help  out  the 
money  for  her  living  and  her  plans,  and  partly  to  draw 
the  women  and  children  in.  How  else  could  she  establish 
any  relations  between  herself  and  them,  or  get  any  perma- 
nent hold  or  access  ?  She  had  "  turned  it  all  over  in  her 
mind,"  she  said;  "and  a  tidy  little  shop  with  fair,  easy 
prices,  was  the  very  thing,  and  a  part  of  just  what  she 
came  down  there  to  do." 

She  made  real,  honest,  hop-raised  bread,  of  sweet  flour 
that  she  gave  ten  dollars  a  barrel  for ;  it  took  a  little  more 
than  a  pint,  perhaps,  to  make  a  tea  loaf;  that  cost  her 
three  cents.;  she  sold  her  loaf  for  four,  and  it  was  better 
than  they  could  get  anywhere  else  for  five.  Then,  three 
evenings  in  a  week,  she  had  hot  muffins,  or  crumpets, 
home-made  ;  (it  was  the  subtle  home  touch  and  flavor  that 
she  counted  on,  to  carry  more  than  a  good  taste  into  their 
mouths,  even  a  dim  notion  of  home  sweetness  and  comfort 
into  their  hearts  ;)  these  first,  —  a  quart  of  flour  at  five 
cents,  two  eggs  at  a  cent  apiece,  and  a  bit  of  butter,  say 
three  cents  more,  with  three  cents  worth  of  milk,  made  an 
outlay  of  fifteen  cents  for  a  dozen  and  a  half;  so  she  sold 
them  for  ten  cents  a  dozen,  and  the  like  had  never  been 
tasted  or  dreamed  of  in  all  that  region  round  about ;  no, 
nor  I  dare  almost  to  say,  in  half  the  region  round  about 
Republic  Avenue  either,  where  they  cannot  get  Luclarion 
Grapps  to  cook. 

The  crumpets  were  cheaper ;  they  were  only  bread- 
sponge,  baked  on  a  griddle  ;  they  were  large,  and  light 
and  tender ;  a  quart  of  flour  would  make  ten ;  she  gave 
the  ten  for  seven  cents. 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OF   KIN.  269 

And  do  you  see,  putting  two  cents  on  every  quart  of 
her  flour,  for  her  labor,  she  earned,  not  made,  —  that 
word  is  for  speculators  and  brokers,  —  with  a  barrel  of  one 
hundred  and  ninety  six  pounds  or  quarts,  three  dollars 
and  ninety-two  cents  ?  The  beauty  of  it  was,  you  per- 
ceive, that  she  did  a  small  business ;  there  was  an  eager 
market  for  all  she  could  produce,  and  there  was  no  waste 
to  allow  a  margin  for. 

I  am  not  a  bit  of  a  political  economist  myself;  but  I 
have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  Luclarion  Grapp  was,  be- 
sides having  hit  upon  the  initial,  individual  idea  of  a 
capital  social  and  philanthropic  enterprise. 

This  was  all  she  tried  to  do  at  first ;  she  began  with 

*  ~ 

bread  ;  the  Lord  from  heaven  began  with  that ;  she  fed 
as  much  of  the  multitude  as  she  could  reach  ;  they  gath- 
ered about  her  for  the  loaves  ;  and  they  got,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  more  than  they  came  or  asked  for. 

They  saw  her  clean-swept  floor ;  her  netted  windows 
that  kept  the  flies  out,  the  clean,  coarse  white  cotton 
shades,  —  tacked  up,  and  rolled  and  tied  with  cord,  coun- 
try-fashion, for  Luclarion  would  not  set  any  fashions  that 
her  poor  neighbors  might  not  follow  if  they  would  ;  —  and 
her  shelves  kept  always  dusted  down  ;  they  could  see  her 
way  of  doing  that,  as  they  happened  in  at  different  times, 
when  she  whisked  about,  lightly  and  nicely,  behind  and  be- 
tween her  jars  and  boxes  and  parcels  with  the  little  feather 
duster  that  she  kept  hanging  over  her  table  where  she 
made  her  change  and  sat  at  her  sewing. 

They  grew  ashamed  by  degrees,  —  those  coarse  women, 
—  to  come  in  in  their  frowsy  rags,  to  buy  her  delicate 
muffins  or  her  white  loaves;  they  would  fling  on  the 
cleanest  shawl  they  had  or  could  borrow,  to  "  cut  round  to 
Old  Maid  Grapp's,"  after  a  cent's  worth  of  yeast,  —  for 


270  REAL    FOLKS. 

her  yeast,  also,  was  like  none  other  that  could  be  got,  and 
would  almost  make  her  own  beautiful  bread  of  itself. 

Back  of  the  shop  was  her  house-room  ;  the  cheapest 
and  cleanest  of  carpet,  —  a  square,  bound  round  with 
bright-striped  carpet- binding,  —  laid  in  the  middle  of  a 
clean  dark  yellow  floor ;  a  plain  pine  table,  scoured  white, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  that ;  on  it,  at  tea-time,  common 
blue  and  white  crockery  cups  and  plates,  and  a  little  black 
teapot ;  a  napkin,  coarse,  but  fresh  from  the  fold,  laid 
down  to  save,  and  at  the  same  time  to  set  off,  with  a  touch 
of  delicate  neatness,  the  white  table  ;  a  wooden  settee, 
with  a  home-made  calico-covered  cushion  and  pillows, 
set  at  right  angles  with  the  large,  black,  speckless  stove ; 
a  wooden  rocking-chair,  made  comfortable  in  like  manner, 
on  the  other  side  ;  the  sink  in  the  corner,  clean,  freshly 
rinsed,  with  the  bright  tin  basin  hung  above  it  on  a  nail. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  whole  place  that  must  not  be, 
in  some  shape,  in  almost  the  poorest ;  but  all  so  beauti- 
fully ordered,  so  stainlessly  kept.  Through  that  open 
door,  those  women  read  a  daily  sermon. 

And  Luclarion  herself,  —  in  a  dark  cotton  print  gown,  a 
plain  strip  of  white  about  the  throat,  —  even  that  was  cot- 
ton, not  linen,  and  two  of  them  could  be  run  together  in 
ten  minutes  for  a  cent,  —  and  a  black  alpacca  apron, 
never  soiled  or  crumpled,  but  washed  and  ironed  when  it 
needed,  like  anything  else,  —  her  hair  smoothly  gathered 
back  under  a  small  white  half-handkerchief  cap,  plain- 
hemmed,  —  was  the  sermon  alive  ;  with  the  soul  of  it,  the 
inner  sweetness  and  purity,  looking  out  at  them  from  clear 
pleasant  eyes,  and  lips  cheery  with  a  smile  that  lay  behind 
them. 

She  had  come  down  there  just  to  do  as  God  told  her : 
to  be  a  neighbor,  and  to  let  her  light  shine.  He  would 
see  about  the  glorifying. 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OF   KIN.  271 

She  did  not  try  to  make  money  out  of  her  candy,  or 
her  ginger-nuts ;  she  kept  those  to  entice  the  little  children 
in ;  to  tempt  them  to  come  again  when  they  had  once 
done  an  errand,  shyly,  or  saucily,  or  hang-doggedly,  —  it 
made  little  difference  which  to  her,  —  in  her  shop. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it's  like,"  Hazel  said,  when  she 'came 
in  and  up-stairs  the  first  Saturday  afternoon  with  Desire, 
and  showed  and  explained  to  her  proudly  all  Luclarion's 
ways  and  blessed  inventions.  "  It's  like  your  mother  and 
mine  throwing  crumbs  to  make  the  pigeons  come,  when 
they  were  little  girls,  and  lived  in  Boston,  —  I  mean  here!  " 

Hazel  waked  up  at  the  end  of  her  sentence,  suddenly, 
as  we  all  do  sometimes,  out  of  talking  or  thinking,  to  the 
consciousness  that  it  was  here  that  she  had  mentally  got 
round  to. 

Desire  had  never  heard  of  the  crumbs  or  the  pigeons. 
Mrs.  Ledwith  had  always  been  in  such  a  hurry,  living  on, 
that  she  never  stopped  to  tell  her  children  the  sweet  old 
tales  of  how  she  had  lived.  Her  child-life  had  not  ripened 
in  her  as  it  had  done  in  Frank. 

Desire  and  Hazel  went  up-stairs  and  looked  at  the  empty 
room.  It  was  light  and  pleasant ;  dormer  windows  opened 
out  on  a  great  area  of  roofs,  above  which  was  blue  sky ; 
upon  which,  poor  clothes  fluttered  in  the  wind,  or  cats 
walked  and  stretched  themselves  safely  and  lazily  in  the 
sun. 

"  I  always  do  like  roofs !  "  said  Hazel.  "  The  nicest 
thing  in  "  Mutual  Friend"  is  Jenny  Wren  up  on  the  Jew's 
roof,  being  dead.  It  seems  like  getting  up  over  the  world, 
and  leaving  it  all  covered  up  and  put  away." 

"  Except  the  old  clothes,"  said  Desire. 

"  They're  ivashed"  answered  Hazel,  promptly ;  and 
never  stopped  to  think  of  the  meaning. 


272  REAL    FOLKS. 

Then  she  jumped  clown  from  the  window,  along  under 
which  a  great  beam  made  a  bench  to  stand  on,  and  looked 
about  the  chamber. 

"  A  swing  to  begin  with,"  she  said.  "  Why  what  is 
that  ?  .Luclarion's  got  one  !  " 

Kn'otted  up  under  two  great  staples  that  held  it,  was  the 
long  loop  of  clean  new  rope  ;  the  notched  board  rested 
against  the  chimney  below. 

"  It's  all  ready  !  Let's  go  down  and  catch  one  !  Lu- 
clarion,  we've  come  to  tea,"  she  announced,  as  they 
reached  the  sitting-room.  "  There's  the  shop  bell !  " 

In  the  shop  was  a  woman  with  touzled  hair  and  a  gown 
with  placket  split  from  gathers  to  hem,  showing  the  ribs  of 
a  dirty  skeleton  skirt.  A  child  with  one  garment  on,  — 
some  sort  of  woolen  thing  that  had  never  been  a  clean 
color,  and  was  all  gutter-color  now,  —  the  woman  holding 
the  child  by  the  hand  here,  in  a  safe  place,  in  a  way  these 
mothers  have  who  turn  their  children  out  in  the  street 
dirt  and  scramble  without  any  hand  to  hold.  No  wonder, 
though,  perhaps  ;  in  the  strangeness  and  unfitness  of  the 
safe,  pure  place,  doubtless  they  feel  an  uneasy  instinct  that 
the  poor  little  vagabonds  have  got  astray,  and  need  some 
holding. 

"  Give  us  a  four-cent  loaf!  "  said  the  woman,  roughly, 
her  eyes  lowering  under  crossly  furrowed  brows,  as  she 
flung  two  coins  upon  the  little  counter. 

Luclarion  took  down  one,  looked  at  it,  saw  that  it  had  a 
pale  side,  and  exchanged  it  for  another. 

"  Here  is  a  nice  crusty  one,"  she  said  pleasantly,  turning 
to  wrap  it  in  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"  None  o'  yer  gammon  !  Give  it  here  ;  there's  your 
money  ;  come  along.  Crazybug !  "  And  she  grabbed  the 
loaf  without  a  wrapper,  and  twitched  the  child. 


NEIGHBORS    AND    NEXT   OF   KIN.  273 

Hazel  sat  still.  She  knew  there  was  no  use.  But  De- 
sire with  her  point-black  determination,  went  right  at  the: 
boy,  took  hold  of  his  hand,  dirt  and  all ;  it  was  disagreea- 
ble, therefore  she  thought  she  must  do  it. 

"  Don't  vou  want  to  come  and  swinge  ?  "  she  said. 

«/  O 

" yer  swing!  and  yer  imperdence  !  Clear  out! 

He's  got  swings  enough  to  home !  Go  to ,  and  be 

,you !" 

Out  of  the  mother's  mouth  poured  a  volley  of  horrible 
words,  like  a  hailstorm  of  hell. 

Desire  fell  back,  as  from  a  blinding;  shock  of  she  knew 

'  O 

not  what. 

Luclarion  came  round  the  counter,  quite  calmly. 

"  Ma'am,"  she  said,  "  those  words  won't  hurt  her.  She 
don't  know  the  language.  But  you've  got  God's  daily 
bread  in  your  hand ;  how  can  you  talk  devil's  Dutch 
over  it  ?  " 

The  woman  glared  at  her.  But  she  saw  nothing  but 
strong,  calm,  earnest  asking  in  the  face  ;  the  asking  of 
God's  own  pity. 

She  rebelled  against  that,  sullenly ;  but  she  spoke  no 
more  foul  words.  I  think  she  could  as  soon  have  spoken 
them  in  the  face  of  Christ ;  for  it  was  the  Christ  in  Lu- 
clarion Grapp  that  looked  out  at  her. 

"  You  needn't  preach.  You  can  order  me  out  of  your 
shop,  if  you  like.  I  don't  care." 

"I  don't  order  you  out.  I'd  rather  you  would  come 
again.  I  don't  think  you  will  bring  that  street-muck  with 
you,  though." 

There  was  both  confidence  and  command  in  the  word  ; 
like  the  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee  :  go,  and  sin  no 
more."  It  detached  the  street-muck  from  the  woman.  It 
was  not  she;  it  was  defilement  she  had  picked  up,  when. 

18 


274  EEAL    FOLKS. 

perhaps  she  could  not  help  it.  She  could  scrape  her  shoes 
at  the  door,  and  come  in  clean. 

"  You  know  a,  darned  lot  about  it,  I  suppose  ! "  were 
the  last  words  of  defiance;  softened  down,  however,  you 
perceive,  to  that  which  can  be  printed. 

Desire  was  pale,  with  a  dry  sob  in  her  throat,  when  the 
woman  had  gone  and  Luclarion  turned  round. 

"  The  angels  in  heaven  know  ;  why  shouldn't  you  ?  " 
said  Luclarion.  "  That's  what  we've  got  to  help." 

A  child  came  in  afterwards,  alone  ;  with  an  actual  clean 
spot  in  the  middle  of  her  face,  where  a  ginger-nut  or  an 
acid  drop  might  go  in.  This  was  a  regular  customer  of  a 
week  past.  The  week  had  made  that  clean  spot ;  with  a 
few  pleasant  and  encouraging  hints  .  from  Luclarion,  ad- 
ministered along  with  the  gingerbread. 

Now  it  was  Hazel's  turn. 

The  round  mouth  and  eyes,  with  expectation  in  them, 
were  like  a  spot  of  green  to  Hazel,  feeling  with  her  witch- 
wand  for  a  human  spring.  But  she  spoke  to  Desire,  look- 
ing cunningly  at  the  child. 

"  Let  us  go  back  and  swing,"  she  said. 

The  girl's  head  pricked  itself  up  quickly. 

"  We've  got  a  swing  up-stairs,"  said  Hazel,  passing 
close  by,  and  just  pausing.  "  A  new  one.  I  guess  it  goes 
pretty  high;  and  it  looks  out  of  top  windows.  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  come  and  see  ?  " 

The  child  lived  down  in  a  cellar. 

"  Take  up  some  ginger-nuts,  and  eat  them  there,"  said 
Luclarion  to  Hazel. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  the  girl  would  have  hung 
back,  afraid  of  losing  her  shop  treat. 

Hazel  knew  better  than  to  hold  out  her  hand,  at  this 
first  essay  ;  she  would  do  that  fast  enough  when  the  time 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OF   KIN.  275 

came.  She  only  walked  on,  through  the  sitting-room,  to 
the  stairs. 

The  girl  peeped,  and  followed. 

Clean  stairs.  She  had  never  trodden  such  before. 
Everything  was  strange  and  clean  here,  as  she  had  never 
seen  anything  before  in  all  her  life,  except  the  sky  and  the 
white  clouds  overhead.  Heaven  be  thanked  that  they  are 
held  over  us,  spotless,  always  ! 

Hazel  heard  the  little  feet,  shuffling,  in  horrible,  distorted 
shoes,  after  her,  over  the  steps  ;  pausing,  coming  slowly  ; 
but  still  starting  again,  and  coming  on. 

Up  on  the  high  landing,  under  the  skylight,  she  opened 
the  door  wide  into  the  dormer-windowed  room,  and  went 
in ;  she  and  Desire,  neither  of  them  looking  round. 

Hazel  got  into  the  swing.  Desire  pushed ;  after  three 
vibrations  they  saw  the  ragged  figure  standing  in  the  door- 
way, watching,  turning  its  head  from  side  to  side  as  the 
swing  passed. 

"  Almost !  "  cried  Hazel,  with  her  feet  up  at  the  win- 
dow. "  There  !  "  She  thrust  them  out  at  that  next  swing ; 
they  looked  as  if  they  touched  the  blue. 

"  I  can  see  over  all  the  chimneys,  and  away  off,  down 
the  water !  Now  let  the  old  cat  die." 

Out  again,  with  a  spring,  as  the  swinging  slackened,  she 
stilLtook  no  notice  of  the  child,  who  would  have  run,  like 
a  wild  kitten,  if  she  had  gone  after  her.  She  called  De- 
sire, and  plunged  into  a  closet  under  the  eaves. 

"  I  wonder  what's  here  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Rats !  " 

The  girl  in  the  doorway  saw  the  dark,  into  which  the 
low  door  opened  ;  she  was  used  to  rats  in  the  dark. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  says  Hazel ;  "  Luclarion  has  a  cat , 
a  great  big  buff  one  with  green  eyes.  She  came  in  over 


276  REAL    FOLKS. 

the  roofs,  and  she  runs  up  here  nights.  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  there  might  be  kittens,  though,  —  one  of  these 
days,  at  any  rate.  Why !  what  a  place  to  play  '  Dare ' 
in  !  It  goes  way  round,  I  don't  know  where  !  Look  here, 
Desire  I  " 

She  sat  on  the  threshold,  that  went  up  a  step,  over  the 
beam,  and  so  leaned  in.  She  had  one  eye  toward  the  girl 
all  the  time,  out  of  the  shadow.  She  beckoned  and  nodded, 
and  Desire  came. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  coast  being  clear,  the  girl 
gave  a  sudden  scud  across,  and  into  the  swing.  She  began 
to  scuff  with  her  slipshod,  twisted  shoes,  pushing  herself. 

Hazel  gave  another  nod  behind  her  to  Desire.  De- 
sire stood  up,  and  as  the  swing  came  back,  pushed  gently, 
touching  the  board  only. 

The  girl  laughed  out  with  the  sudden  thrill  of  the  mo- 
tion. Desire  pushed  again. 

Higher  and  higher,  till  the  feet  reached  up  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"There!"  she  cried;  and  kicked  an  old  shoe  off,  out 
over  the  roof.  "  I've  lost  my  shoe  !  " 

"  Never  mind;  it'll  be  down  in  the  yard,"  said  Hazel. 

Thereupon  the  child,  at  the  height  of  her  sweep  again, 
kicked  out  the  other  one. 

Desire  and  Hazel,  together,  pushed  her  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

"  Now  let's  have  ginger-cakes,"  said  Hazel,  taking  them 
out  of  her  pocket,  and  leaving  the  "  cat "  to  die. 

Little  Barefoot  came  down  at  that,  with  a  run  ;  hang- 
ing to  the  rope  at  one  side,  and  dragging,  till  she  tumbled 
in  a  sprawl  upon  the  floor. 

"  You  ought  to  have  waited,"  said  Desire. 

"  Poh  !  I  don't  never  wait !  "  cried  the  ragamuffin, 
rubbing  her  elbows.  "  I  don't  care." 


NEIGHBORS    AND    NEXT   OF   KIN.  277 

"  But  it  isn't  nice  to  tumble  round,"  suggested  Hazel. 

"  I  ain't  nice,"  answered  the  child,  and  settled  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  Well,  these  ginger-nuts  are,"  said  Hazel.     "  Here  !  " 

"  Have  you  had  a  good  time  ?  "  she  asked  when  the 
last  one  was  eaten,  and  she  led  the  way  to  go  down-stairs. 

"  Good  time  !  That  ain't  nothin' !  I've  had  a  reg'lar 
bust !  I'm  comin'  agin' ;  it's  bully.  Now  I  must  get  my 
loaf  and  my  shoes,  and  go  along  back  and  take  a  lickin'." 

That  was  the  way  Hazel  caught  her  first  child. 

She  made  her  tell  her  name,  —  Ann  Fazackerley,  —  and 
promise  to  come  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  bring  two 
more  girls  with  her. 

"  We'll  have  a  party,"  said  Hazel,  "  and  play  Puss  in 
the  Corner.  But  you  must  get  leave,"  she  added.  "  Ask 
your  mother.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  punished  when 
you  go  home." 

"  Lor !  you're  green  !  I  ain't  got  no  mother.  An'  I 
always  hooks  jack.  I'm  licked  reg'lar  when  I  gets  back, 
anyway.  There's  half  a  dozen  of  'em.  When  'tain't 
one,  it's  another.  That's  Jane  Goffey's  bread ;  she's  been 
a  swearin'  after  it  this  hour,  you  bet.  But  I'll  come,  — 
see  if  I  don't !  " 

Hazel  drew  a  hard  breath  as  she  let  the  girl  go.  Back 
to  her  crowded  cellar,  her  Jane  Goffeys,  the  swearings, 
and  the  lickings.  What  was  one  hour  at  a  time,  once  or 
twice  a  week,  to  do  against  all  this  ? 

But  she  remembered  the  clean  little  round  in  her  face, 
out  of  which  eyes  and  mouth  looked  merrily,  while  she 
talked  rough  slang  ;  the  same  fun  and  daring,  —  nothing 
worse,  —  were  in  this  child's  face,  that  might  be  in  an- 
other's saying  prettier  words.  How  could  she  help  her 
words,  hearing  nothing  but  devil's  Dutch  around  her  all 


278  REAL  FOLKS. 

the  time  ?     Children  do  not  make  the  language  they  are 
born  into.     And  the  face  that  could  be  simply  merry,  tell- 
ing such  a  tale  as  that,  —  what  sort  of  bright  little  immor- 
tality must  it  be  the  outlook  of? 
Hazel  meant  to  try  her  hour. 

This  is  one  of  my  last  chapters.  I  can  only  tell  you 
how  they  began,  —  these  real  folks,  —  the  work  their  real 
living  led  them  up  to.  Perhaps  some  other  time  we  may 
follow  it  on.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  now  a  finished  story  of 
it,  I  should  tell  a  story  ahead  of  the  world. 

I  can  show  you  what  six  weeks  brought  it  to.  I  can 
show  you  them  fairly  launched  in  what  may  grow  to  a 
beautiful  private  charity,  —  an  "  Insecution,"  —  a  broad 
social  scheme,  —  a  millennium  ;  at  any  rate,  a  life  work, 
change  and  branch  as  it  may,  for  these  girls  who  have 
found  out,  in  their  girlhood,  that  there  is  genuine  living, 
not  mere  "  playing  pretend,"  to  be  done  in  the  world. 
But  you  cannot,  in  little  books  of  three  hundred  pages, 
see  things  through.  I  never  expected  or  promised  to  do 
that.  The  threescore  years  and  ten  themselves,  do  not 
do  it. 

It  turned  into  regular  Wednesday  and  Saturday  after- 
noons. Three  girls  at  first,  then  six,  then  less  again, 
—  sometimes  only  one  or  two  ;  until  they  gradually  came 
up  to  and  settled  at,  an  average  of  nine  or  ten. 

The  first  Saturday  they  took  them  as  they  were.  The 
next  time  they  gave  them  a  stick  of  candy  each,  the  first 
thing;  then  Hazel's  fingers  were  sticky,  and  she  proposed 
the  wash-basin  all  round,  before  they  went  up-stairs.  The 
bright  tin  bowl  was  ready  in  the  sink,  and  a  clean  round 
towel  hung  beside  ;  and  with  some  red  and  white  soap- 
balls,  they  managed  to  fascinate  their  dirty  little  visitors 


NEIGHBORS    AND    NEXT    OF    KIN.  279 

into  three  clean  pairs  of  hands,  and  three  clean  faces  as 
well. 

The  candy  and  the  washing  grew  to  be  a  custom  ;  and 
in  three  weeks'  time,  watching  for  a  hot  day  and  having 
it  luckily  on  a  Saturday,  they  ventured  upon  instituting 
a  whole  bath,  in  big  round  tubs,  in  the  back  shed-room, 
where  a  faucet  came  in  over  a  wash  bench,  and  a  great 
boiler  was  set  close  by. 

They  began  with  a  foot-paddle,  playing  pond,  and  sail- 
ing chips  at  the  same  time  ;  then  Luclarion  told  them  they 
might  have  tubs  full,  and  get  in  all  over  and  duck,  if  they 
liked ;  and  children  who  may  hate  to  be  washed,  neverthe- 
less are  always  ready  for  a  duck  and  a  paddle.  So  Lucla- 
rion superintended  the  bath-room  ;  Diana  helped  her  ;  and 
Desire  and  Hazel  tended  the  shop.  Luclarion  invented 
a  shower-bath  with  a  dipper  and  a  colander  ;  then  the  wet, 
tangled  hair  had  to  be  combed,  —  a  climax  which  she  had 
secretly  aimed  at  with  a  great  longing,  from  the  beginning ; 
and  doing  this,  she  contrived  with  carbolic  soap  and  a  sep- 
arate suds,  and  a  bit  of  sponge,  to  give  the  neglected  little 
heads  a  most  salutary  dressing. 

Saturday  grew  into  bath-day  ;  soap-suds  suggested  bub- 
bles ;  and  the  ducking  and  the  bubbling  were  a  frolic  alto- 
gether. 

Then  Hazel  wished  they  could  be  put  into  clean  clothes 
each  time  ;  wouldn't  it  do,  somehow  ? 

But  that  would  cost.  Luclarion  had  come  to  the  limit 
of  her  purse  ;  Hazel  had  no  purse,  and  Desire's  was  small. 

"  But  you  see  they've  got  to  have  it,"  said  Hazel ;  and 
so  she  went  to  her  mother,  and  from  her  straight  to  Uncle 
Oldways. 

They  counted  up,  —  she  and  Desire,  and  Diana ;  two 
little  common  suits,  of  stockings,  underclothes,  and  calico 


280  REAL    POLKS. 

gowns,  apiece ;  somebody  to  do  a  washing  once  a  week, 
ready  for  the  change  ;  and  then  —  "  those  horrid  shoes !  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ripwinkley. 
"  The  things  will  be  taken  away  from  them,  and  sold.  You 
would  have  to  keep  doing,  over  and  over,  to'no  purpose,  I 
am  afraid/' 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Luclarion,  facing  her  "stump." 
"  We'll  do  for  them  we  can  do  for ;  if  it  ain't  ones,  it  will 
be  tothers.  Those  that  don't  keep  their  things,  can't  have 
'em ;  and  if  they're  taken  away,  I  won't  sell  bread  to  the 
women  they  belong  to,  till  they're  brought  back.  Besides, 
the  washing  kind  of  sorts  'em  out,  beforehand.  'Taint  the 
worst  ones  that  are  willing  to  come,  or  to  send,  for  that. 

~  ' 

You  always  have  to  work  in  at  an  edge,  in  anything,  and 
make  your  way  as  you  go  along.  It'll  regulate.  I'm  liv- 
ing there  right  amongst  'em  ;  I've  got  a  clew,  and  a  hold  ; 
I  can  follow  things  up ;  I  shall  have  a  '  circle ;  '  there's  cir- 
cles everywhere.  And  in  all  the  wheels  there's  a  moving 
spirit;  you  ain't  got  to  depend  just  on  yourself.  Things 
work  ;  the  Lord  sees  to  it ;  it's  His  business  as  much  as 
yours." 

Hazel  told  Uncle  Titus  that  there  were  shoes  and  stock- 
ings and  gowns  wanted  down  in  Neighbor  Street ;  things 
for  ten  children  ;  they  must  have  subscriptions.  And  so 
she  had  come  to  him. 

The  Ripwinkleys  had  never  given  Uncle  Titus  a  Christ- 
mas or  a  birthday  present,  for  fear  they  should  seem  to 
establish  a  mutual  precedent.  They  had  never  talked  of 
their  plans  which  involved  calculation,  before  him  ;  they 
were  terribly  afraid  of  just  one  thing  with  him,  and  only 
that  one,  —  of  anything  most  distantly  like  what  Desire  Led- 
with  called  "  a  Megilp  bespeak."  But  now  Hazel  went  up 
•to  him  as  bold  as  a  lion.  She  took  it  for  granted  he  was 


NEIGHBORS    AND   NEXT   OF   KIN.  281 

like  other  people,  —  "  real  folks  ;  "  that  he  would  do  — 
what  must  be  done. 

"  How  much  will  it  cost  ?  " 

"  For  clothes  and  shoes  for  each  child,  about  eight  dol- 

7  o 

lars  for  three  months,  we  guess,"  said  Hazel.  "  Mother's 
going  to  pay  for  the  washing  !  " 

"  Guess?     Haven't  you  calculated?" 

"Yes,  sir.  'Guess'  and  'calculate'  mean  the  same 
thing  in  Yankee,"  said  Hazel,  laughing. 

Uncle  Titus  laughed  in  and  out,  in  his  queer  way,  with 
his  shoulders  going  up  and  down. 

Then  he  turned  round,  on  his  swivel  chair,  to  his  desk, 
and  wrote  a  check  for  one  hundred  dollars. 

"  There.     See  how  far  you  can  make  that  go." 

"  That's  good,"  said  Hazel,  heartily,  looking  at  it ; 
"  that's  splendid  !  "  and  never  gave  him  a  word  of  per- 
sonal thanks.  It  was  a  thing  for  mutual  congratulations, 
rather,  it  would  seem  ;  the  "good"  was  just  what  they  all 
wanted,  and  there  it  was.  Why  should  anybody  in  par- 
ticular be  thanked,  as  if  anybody  in  particular  had  asked 
for  anything  ?  She  did  not  say  this,  or  think  it ;  she  sim- 
ply did  not  think  about  it  at  all. 

And  Uncle  Oldways  —  again  —  liked  it. 

There  !  I  shall  not  try,  now,  to  tell  you  any  more ; 
their  experiences,  their  difficulties,  their  encouragements, 
would  make  large  material  for  a  much  larger  book.  I  want 
you  to  know  of  the  idea,  and  the  attempt.  If  they  fail, 
partly,  —  if  drunken  fathers  steal  the  shoes,  and  the  inno- 
cent have  to  forfeit  for  the  guilty,  —  if  the  bad  words  still 
come  to  the  lips  often,  though  Hazel  tells  them  they  are 
not  "  nice,"  — and  beginning  at  the  outside,  they  are  in  a 
fair  way  of  learning  the  niceness  of  being  nice,  — -  if  some 
children  come  once  or  twice,  and  get  dressed  up,  and  then 


282  REAL    FOLKS. 

go  off  and  live  in  the  gutters  again  until  the  clothes  are 
gone,  —  are  these  real  failures  ?  There  is  a  bright,  pure 
place  down  there  in  Neighbor  Street,  and  twice  a  week 
some  little  children  have  there  a  bright,  pure  time.  Will 
this  be  lost  in  the  world  ?  In  the  great  Ledger  of  God 
will  it  always  stand  unbalanced  on  the  debit  side  ? 

If  you  are  afraid  it  will  fail,  —  will  be  swallowed  up  in 
the  great  sink  Of  vice  and  misery,  like  a  single  sweet,  fresh 
drop,  sweet  only  while  it  is  falling,  —  go  and  do  likewise  ; 
rain  down  more  ;  make  the  work  larger,  stronger  ;  pour 
the  sweetness  in  faster,  till  the  wide,  grand  time  of  full 

7  '    O 

refreshing  shall  have  come  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord! 
Ada  Geoffrey  went  down  and  helped.  Miss  Craydocke 
is  going  to  knit  scarlet  stockings  all  winter  for  them  ;  Mr. 
Geoffrey  has  put  a  regular  bath-room  in  for  Luclarion,  with 
half  partitions,  and  three  separate  tubs ;  Mrs.  Geoffrey  has 
furnished  a  dormitory,  where  little  homeless  ones  can  be 
kept  to  sleep.  Luclarion  has  her  hands  full,  and  has  taken 
in  a  girl  to  help  her,  whose  board  and  wages  Rachel  Froke 
and  Asenath  Scherman  pay.  A  thing  like  that  spreads 
every  way ;  you  have  only  to  be  among,  and  one  of — 
Reaf  Folks. 

Desire,  besides  her  work  in  Neighbor  Street,  has  gone 
into  the  Normal  School.  She  wants  to  make  herself  fit 
for  any  teaching ;  she  wants  also  to  know  and  to  become 
a  companion  of  earnest,  working  girls. 

She  told  Uncle  Titus  this,  after  she  had  been  with  him  a 
month,  and  had  thought  it  over  ;  and  Uncle  Titus  agreed, 
quite  as  if  it  were  no  real  concern  of  his,  but  a  very  proper 
and  unobjectionable  plan  for  her,  if  she  liked  it. 

One  day,  though,  when  Marmaduke  Wharne  —  who 
had  come  this  fall  again  to  stay  his  three  days,  and  talk 


NEIGHBORS   AND   NEXT   OF   KIN.  283 

over  their  business,  —  sat  with  him  in  his  study,  just 
where  they  had  sat  two  years  and  a  little  more  ago,  and 
Hazel  and  Desire  ran  up  and  down  stairs  together,  in  and 
out  upon  their  busy  Wednesday  errands,  —  Marmaduke 
said  to  Titus,  — 

"  Afterwards  is  a  long  time,  friend  ;  but  I  mistrust  you 
have  found  the  comfort,  as  well  as  the  providence,  of '  next 
of  kin  ?  '  " 

"  Afterwards  is  a  long  time,"  said  Titus  Oldways, 
gravely  ;  "  but  the  Lord's  line  of  succession  stretches  all 
the  way  through." 

And  that  same  night  he  had  his  other  old  friend,  Miss 
Craydocke,  in  ;  and  he  brought  two  papers  that  he  had 
ready,  quietly  out  to  be  signed,  each  with  four  names : 
"  Titus  Oldways,"  by  itself,  on  the  one  side ;  on  the 
other,  — 

"  RACHEL  FROKE, 
MARMADUKE  WHARNE, 
KEREN-HAPPUCH  CRAYDOCKE." 

And  one  of  those  two  papers  —  which  are  no  further 
part  of  the  present  story,  seeing  that  good  old  Uncle  Ti- 
tus is  at  this  moment  alive  and  well,  as  he  has  a  perfect 
right,  and  is  heartily  welcome  to  be,  whether  the  story 
ever  comes  to  a  regular  winding  up  or  not  —  was  laid 
safely  away  in  a  japanned  box  in  a  deep  drawer  of  his 
study  table  ;  and  Marmaduke  Wharne  put  the  other  in  his 
pocket. 

He  and  Titus  knew.  I  myself  guess,  and  perhaps  you 
do ;  but  neither  you  nor  I,  nor  Rachel,  nor  Keren-happuch, 
know  for  certain  ;  and  it  is  no  sort  of  matter  whether  we 
do  or  not. 

The  "  next  of  kin  "  is  a  better  and  a  deeper  thing  than 
any  claim  of  law  or  register  of  bequest  can  show.  Titus 


284  REAL    FOLKS. 

Oldways  had  found  that  out  ;  and  he  had  settled  in  his 
mind,  to  his  restful  and  satisfied  belief,  that  God,  to  the 
last  moment  of  His  time,  and  the  last  particle  of  His  cre- 
ated substance,  can  surely  care  for  and  order  and  direct 
His  own. 

Is  that  end  and  moral  enough  for  a  two  years'  watchful 
trial,  and  a  two  years'  simple  tale  ? 


THE   HOKSESHOE.  285 

XXI. 

THE    HORSESHOE. 

laid  out  the  Waite  Place  in  this  manner :  — 
Right  into  the  pretty  wooded  pasture,  starting  from 
a  point  a  little  way  down  the  road  from  the  old  house,  they 
projected  a  roadway  which  swept  round,  horseshoe  fash- 
ion, till  it  met  itself  again  within  a  space  of  some  twenty 
yards  or  so ;  and  this  sweep  made  a  frontage  —  upon  its 
inclosed  bit  of  natural,  moss-turfed  green,  sprinkled  with 
birch  and  pine  and  oak  trees,  and  with  gray  out-croppings 
of  rock  here  and  there — for  the  twenty  houses,  behind 
which  opened  the  rest  of  the  unspoiled,  irregular,  open 
slope  and  swell  and  dingle  of  the  hill-foot  tract  that  dipped 
down  at  one  reach,  we  know,  to  the  river. 

The  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  vines,  and  ferns,  and  stones, 
were  left  in  their  wild'  prettiness  ;  only  some  roughness  of 
nature's  wear  and  tear  of  dead  branches  and  broken  brush- 
wood, and  the  like,  were  taken  away,  and  the  little  foot- 
paths cleared  for  pleasant  walking. 

There  were  all  the  little  shady,  sweet-smelling  nooks, 
just  as  they  had  been ;  all  the  little  field-parlors,  opening 
with  their  winding  turns  between  bush  and  rock,  one  into 
another.  The  twenty  households  might  find  twenty  sepa- 
rate places,  if  they  all  wanted  to  take  a  private  out-door 
tea  at  once. 

The  cellars  were  dug ;  the  frames  were  up  ;  workmen 
were  busy  with  brick  and  mortar,  hammer  and  plane ;  two 
or  three  buildings  were  nearly  finished,  and  two  —  the  two 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  Horseshoe,  looking  out  at  the 


286  REAL    FOLKS. 

back  into  the  deepest  and  pleasantest  wood-aisle,  where 
the  leaves  were  reddening  and  mellowing  in  the  early  Oc- 
tober frost,  and  the  ferns  were  turning  into  tender  trans- 
parent shades  of  palest  straw-color  —  were  completed,  and 
had  dwellers  in  them  ;  the  cheeriest,  and  happiest,  and 
coziest  of  neighbors ;  and  who  do  you  think  these  were  ? 

Miss  Waite  and  Delia,  of  course,  in  one  house  ;  and 
with  them,  dividing  the  easy  rent  and  the  space  that 
was  ample  for  four  women,  were  Lucilla  Waters  and  her 
mother.  In  the  other,  were  Kenneth  and  Rosamond  Kin- 
caid  and  Dorrk. 

Kenneth  and  Rosamond  had  been  married  just  three 
weeks.  Rosamond  had  told  him  she  would  begin  the 
world  with  him,  and  they  had  begun.  Begun  in  the 
simple,  true  old-fashioned  way,  in  which,  if  people  only 
would  believe  it,  it  is  even  yet  not  impossible  for  young 
men  and  women  to  inaugurate  their  homes. 

They  could  not  have  had  a  place  at  Westover,  and  a 
horse  and  buggy  for  Kenneth  to  go  back  and  forth  with ; 

nor  even  a  house  in  one  of  the  best  streets  of  Z ;  and 

down  at  East  Square  everything  was  very  modern  and 
pretentious,  based  upon  the  calculation  of  rising  values  and 
a  rush  of  population. 

But  here  was  this  new  neighborhood  of —  well,  yes,  — 
"  model  houses  ; "  a  blessed  Christian  speculation  for  a 
class  not  easily  or  often  reached  by  any  speculations  save 
those  that  grind  and  consume  their  little  regular  means, 
by  forcing  upon  them  the  lawless  and  arbitrary  prices  of 
the  day,  touching  them  at  every  point  in  their  living,  but 
not  governing  correspondingly  their  income,  as  even  the 
hod-carrier's  and  railroad  navvy's  daily  pay  is  reached  and 
ruled  to  meet  the  proportion  of  the  time. 

They  would  be  plain,  simple,  little-cultured  people  that 


THE   HORSESHOE.  287 

would  live  there  ;  the  very  "  betwixt  and  betweens  "  that 
Rosamond  had  used  to  think  so  hardly  fated.  Would  she 
go  and  live  among  them,  in  one  of  these  little  new,  prim- 
itive homes,  planted  down  in  the  pasture-land,  on  the  out- 
skirts ?  Would  she  —  the  pretty,  graceful,  elegant  Rosa- 
mond—  live  semi-detached  with  old  Miss  Arabel  Waite  ? 

That  was  just  exactly  the  very  thing  she  would  do ;  the 
thing  she  did  not  even  let  Kenneth  think  of  first,  and  ask 
her,  but  that,  when  they  had  fully  agreed  that  they  would 
begin  life  somehow,  in  some  right  way  together,  according 
to  their  means,  she  herself  had  questioned  him  if  they 
might  not  do. 

And  so  the  houses  were  hurried  in  the  building ;  for  old 

O    ' 

Miss  Arabel  must  have  hers  before  the  winter  ;  (it  seems 
strange  how  often  the  change  comes  when  one  could  not 
have  waited  any  longer  for  it ; )  and  Kenneth  had  mill 
building,  and  surveying,  and  planning,  in  East  Square, 
and  Mr.  Roger  Marchbanks'  great  gray-stone  mansion 
going  up  on  West  Hill,  to  keep  him  busy  ;  work  enough 
for  any  talented  young  fellow,  fresh  from  the  School  of 
Technology,  who  had  got  fair  hold  of  a  beginning,  to  set- 
tle down  among  and  grasp  the  "  next  things  "  that  were 
pretty  sure  to  follow  along  after  the  first. 

Dorris  has  all  Ruth's  music  scholars,  and  more  ;  for 
there  has  never  been  anybody  to  replace  Miss  Robbyns, 

and  there  are  many  young  girls  in  Z ,  and  down  here 

in  East  Square,  who  want  good  teaching  and  cannot  go 
away  to  get  it.  She  has  also  the  organ-playing  in  the  new 
church. 

She  keeps  her  morning  hours  and  her  Saturdays  to  help 
Rosamond;  for  they  are  "cooperating"  here,  in  the  new 
home  ;  what  was  the  use,  else,  of  having  cooperated  in  the 
old  ?  Rosamond  cannot  bear  to  have  any  coarse,  profane 


288  REAL    POLKS. 

fingers  laid  upon  her  little  household  gods,  —  her  wedding- 
tins  and  her  feather  dusters,  —  while  the  first  gloss  and 
freshness  are  on,  at  any  rate  ;  and  with  her  dainty  hand- 
ling, the  gloss  is  likely  to  last  a  long  while. 

Such  neighbors,  too,  as  the  Waites  and  Waterses  are  ! 
How  they  helped  in  the  fitting  up,  running  in  in  odd  half 
hours  from  their  own  nailing  and  placing,  which  they  said 
could  wait  awhile,  since  they  weren't  brides  ;  and  such 
real  old  times  visiting  as  they  have  already  between  the 
houses  ;  coming  and  taking  right  hold,  with  wiping  up 
dinner  plates  as  likely  as  not,  if  that  is  the  thing  in  hand  ; 
picking  up  what  is  there,  as  easily  as  "  the  girls  "  used  to 
help  work  out  some  last  new  pattern  of  crochet,  or  try 
over  music,  or  sort  worsteds  for  gorgeous  affghans  for  the 
next  great  fair  ! 

Miss  Arabel  is  apt  to  come  in  after  dinner,  and  have  a 
dab  at  the  plates  ;  she  knows  she  interrupts  nothing  then  ; 
and  she  "  has  never  been  used  to  sitting  talking,  with 
gloves  on  and  a  parasol  in  her  lap."  And  now  she  has 
given  up  trying  to  make  impossible  biases,  she  has  such  a 
quantity  of  time  ! 

It  was  the  matter  of  receiving  visits  from  her  friends 
who  did  sit  with  their  parasols  in  their  laps,  or  who  only 
expected  to  see  the  house,  or  look  over  wedding  presents, 
that  would  be  the  greatest  hindrance,  Rosamond  realized 
at  once  ;  that  is,  if  she  would  let  it ;  so  she  did  just  the 
funniest  thing,  perhaps,  that  ever  a  bride  did  do  :  she  set 
her  door  wide  open  from  her  pretty  parlor,  with  its  books 
and  flowers  and  pictures  and  window-draperies  of  hanging 
vines,  into  the  plain,  cozy  little  kitchen,  with  its  tin  pans 
and  bright  new  buckets  and  its  Shaker  chairs  ;  and  when 
she  was  busy  there,  asked  her  girl-friends  right  in,  as  she 
had  used  to  take  them  up  into  her  bedroom,  if  she  were 
doing  anything  pretty  or  had  something  to  show. 


THE    HORSESHOE.  289 

And  they  liked  it,  for  the  moment,  at  any  rate  ;  they 
could  not  help  it ;  they  thought  it  was  lovely  ;  a  kind  of 
bewitching  little  play  at  keeping  house  ;  though  some  of 
them  went  away  and  wondered,  and  said  that  Rosamond 
Holabird  had  quite  changed  all  her  way  of  living  and  her 
position  ;  it  was  very  splendid  and  strong-minded,  they 
supposed ;  but  they  never  should  have  thought  it  of  her, 
and  of  course  she  could  not  keep  it  up. 

"  And  the  neighborhood  !  "  was  the  cry.  "  The  rabble 
she  has  got,  and  is  going  to  have,  round  her !  All  planks 
and  sand,  and  tubs  of  mortar,  now  ;  you  have  to  half 
break  your  neck  in  getting  up  there  ;  and  when  it  is  set- 
tled it  will  be  —  such  a  frowze  of  common  people  !  Why 
the  foreman  of  our  factory  has  engaged  a  house,  and  Mrs. 
Haslam,  who  actually  used  to  do  up  laces  for  mamma,  has 
got  another  I  " 

That  is  what  is  said  —  in  some  instances  —  over  on 
West  Hill,  when  the  elegant  visitors  came  home  from  call- 
ing at  the  Horseshoe.  Meanwhile,  what  Rosamond  does 
is  something  like  this,  which  she  happened  to  do  one 
bright  afternoon  a  very  little  while  ago. 

She  and  Dorris  had  just  made  and  baked  a  charming 
little  tea-cake,  which  was  set  on  a  fringed  napkin  in  a 
round  white  china  dish,  and  put  away  in  the  fresh,  oak- 
grained  kitchen  pantry,  where  not  a  crumb  or  a  slop  had 
ever  yet  been  allowed  to  rest  long  enough  to  defile  or 
give  a  flavor  of  staleness  ;  out  of  which  everything  is  tidily 
used  up  while  it  is  nice,  and  into  which  little  delicate  new- 
made  bits  like  this,  for  next  meals,  are  always  going. 

The  tea-table  itself,  —  with  its  three  plates,  and  its  new 

silver,  and  the  pretty,  thin,  shallow  cups  and  saucers,  that 

an  Irish  girl  would  break  a  half-dozen  of  every  week,  — 

was  laid  with  exquisite  preciseness  ;  the  square  white  nap- 

19 


290  REAL  FOLKS. 

kins  at  top  and  bottom  over  the  crimson  cloth,  spread  to 
the  exactness  of  a  line,  and  every  knife  and  fork  at  fair 
right  angles ;  the  loaf  was  upon  the  white  carved  trencher, 
and  nothing  to  be  done  when  Kenneth  should  come  in,  but 
to  draw  the  tea,  and  bring  the  brown  cake  forth. 

Rosamond  will  not  leave  all  these  little  doings  to  break 
up  the  pleasant  time  of  his  return  ;  she  will  have  her  lei- 
sure then,  let  her  be  as  busy  as  she  may  while  he  is  away. 

There  was  an  hour  or  more  after  all  was  done  ;  even 
after  the  Panjandrums  had  made  their  state  call,  leaving 
their  barouche  at  the  heel  of  the  Horseshoe,  and  filling  up 
all  Rosamond's  little  vestibule  with  their  flounces,  as  they 
came  in  and  went  out. 

The  Panjandrums  were  new  people  at  West  Hill ;  very 
new  and  very  grand,  as  only  new  things  and  new  .people 
can  be,  turned  out  in  the  latest  style  pushed  to  the  last 
agony.  Mrs.  Panjandrum's  dress  was  all  in  two  shades 
of  brown,  to  the  tips  of  her  feathers,  and  the  toes  of  her 
boots,  and  the  frill  of  her  parasol ;  and  her  carriage  was 
all  in  two  shades  of  brown,  likewise  ;  cushions,  and  tas- 
sels, and  panels  ;  the  horses  themselves  were  cream-color, 
with  dark  manes  and  tails.  Next  year,  perhaps,  every- 
thing will  be  in  pansy-colors,  —  black  and  violet  and  gold ; 
and  then  she  will  probably  have  black  horses  with  gilded 
harness  and  royal  purple  tails. 

It  was  very  good  of  the  Panjandrums,  doubtless,  to 
come  down  to  the  Horseshoe  at  all ;  I  am  willing  to  give 
them  all  the  credit  of  really  admiring  Rosamond,  and  car- 
ing to  see  her  in  her  little  new  home  ;  but  there  are  two 
other  things  to  be  considered  also  :  the  novel  kind  of 
home  Rosamond  had  chosen  to  set  up,  and  the  human 
weakness  of  curiosity  concerning  all  experiments,  and 
friends  in  all  new  lights  ;  also  the  fact  of  that  other  estab- 


THE    HORSESHOE.  291 

lishment  shortly  to  branch  out  of  the  Holabird  connection. 
The  family  could  not  quite  go  under  water,  even  with 
people  of  the  Panjandrum  persuasion,  while  there  was 
such  a  pair  of  prospective  corks  to  float  them  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dakie  Thayne. 

The  Panjandrum  carriage  had  scarcely  .bowled  away, 
when  a  little  buggy  and  a  sorrel  pony  came  up  the  road, 
and  somebody  alighted  with  a  brisk  spring,  slipped  the 
rein  with  a  loose  knot  through  the  fence-rail  at  the  corner, 
and  came  up  one  side  of  the  two-plank  foot-walk  that  ran 
around  the  Horseshoe  ;  somebody  who  had  come  home 
unexpectedly,  to  take  his  little  wife  to  ride.  Kenneth 
Kincaid  had  business  over  at  the  new  district  of  "  Claren- 
don Park." 

Drives,  and  livery-stable  bills,  were  no  part  of  the  items 
allowed  for,  in  the  programme  of  these  young  people's 
living  ;  therefore  Rosamond  put  on  her  gray  hat,  with  its 
soft  little  dove's  breast,  and  took  her  bright-striped  shawl 
upon  her  arm,  and  let  Kenneth  lift  her  into  the  buggy  — 
for  which  there  was  no  manner  of  need  except  that  they 
both  liked  it,  —  with  very  much  the  feeling  as  if  she  were 
going  off  on  a  lovely  bridal  trip.  They  had  had  no  bridal 
trip,  you  see  ;  they  did  not  really  want  one  ;  and  this  lit- 
tle impromptu  drive  was  such  a  treat ! 

Now  the  wonders  of  nature  and  the  human  mind  show 
—  if  I  must  go  so  far  to  find  an  argument  for  the  state- 
ment I  am  making  —  that  into  a  single  point  of  time  or 
particle  of  matter  may  be  gathered  the  relations  of  a  solar 
system  or  the  experiences  of  a  life ;  that  a  universe  may 
be  compressed  into  an  atom,  or  a  molecule  expanded  into 
a  macrocosm ;  therefore  I  expect  nobody  to  sneer  at  my 
Rosamond  as  childishly  happy  in  her  simple  honeymoon, 
or  at  me  for  making  extravagant  and  unsupported  asser- 


292  REAL    FOLKS. 

tions,  when  I  say  that  this  hour  and  a  half,  and  these  four 
miles  out  to  Clarendon  Park  and  back,  —  the  lifting  and 
the  tucking  in,  and  the  setting  off,  the  sitting  side  by 
side  in  the  ripe  October  air  and  the  golden  twilight,  the 
noting  together  every  pretty  tm*n,  every  flash  of  autumn 
color  in  the  woods,  every  change  in  the  cloud-groupings 
overhead,  every  glimpse  of  busy,  bright-eyed  squirrels  up 
and  down  the  walls,  every  cozy,  homely  group  of  barn- 
yard creatures  at  the  farmsteads,  the  change,  the  pleas- 
ure, the  thought  of  home  and  always-togetherness,  —  all 
this  made  the  little  treat  of  a  country  ride  as  much  to 
them,  holding  all  that  any  wandering  up  and  down  the 
whole  world  in  their  new  companionship  could  hold,  —  as 
a  going  to  Europe,  or  a  journey  to  mountains  and  falls  and 
sea-sides  and  cities,  in  a  skimming  of  the  States.  You 
cannot  have  more  than  there  is  ;  and  you  do  not  care  for 
more  than  just  what  stands  for  and  emphasizes  the  essen- 
tial beauty,  the  living  gladness,  that  no  place  gives,  but 
that  hearts  carry  about  into  places  and  baptize  them  with, 
so  that  ever  afterward  a  tender  charm  hangs  round  them, 
because  "  we  saw  it  then." 

And  Kenneth  and  Rosamond  Kincaid  had  all  these 
bright  associations,  these  beautiful  glamours,  these  glad 
reminders,  laid  up  for  years  to  come,  in  a  four  miles  space 
that  they  might  ride  or  walk  over,  re-living  it  all,  in  the 
returning  Octobers  of  many  other  years.  I  say  they  had  a 
bridal  tour  that  day,  and  that  the  four  miles  were  as  good 
as  four  thousand.  Such  little  bits  of  signs  may  stand  for 
such  high,  great,  blessed  things ! 

"  How  lovely  stillness  and  separateness  are  !  "  said 
Rosamond  as  they  sat  in  the  buggy,  stopping  to  enjoy  a 
glimpse  of  the  river  on  one  side,  and  a  flame  of  burning 
bushes  on  the  other,  against  the  dark  face  of  a  piece  of 


THE   HORSESHOE.  293 

woods  that  held  the  curve  of  road  in  which  they  stood,  in 
sheltered  quiet.  "  How  pretty  a  house  would  be,  up  on 
that  knoll.  Do  you  know  things  puzzle  me  a  little,  Ken- 
neth ?  I  have  almost  come  to  a  certain  conclusion  lately, 
that  people  are  not  meant  to  live  apart,  but  that  it  is  really 
everybody's  duty  to  live  in  a  town,  or  a  village,  or  in  some 
gathering  of  human  beings  together.  Life  tends  to  that, 
and  all  the  needs  and  uses  of  it ;  and  yet,  —  it  is  so  sweet 
in  a  place  like  this,  —  and  however  kind  and  social  you 
may  be,  it  seems  once  in  a  while  such  an  escape  !  Do  you 
believe  in  beautiful  country  places,  and  in  having  a  little 
piece  of  creation  all  to  yourself,  if  you  can'get  it,  or  if  not, 
what  do  you  suppose  all  creation  is  made  for  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  just  that  which  you  have  said,  Rose."  Rosa- 
mond has  now,  what  her  mother  hinted  once,  somebody 
to  call  her  "  Rose,"  with  a  happy  and  beautiful  privilege. 
"  Perhaps  to  escape  into.  Not  for  one,  here  and  there, 
selfishly,  all  the  time  ;  but  for  the  whole,  with  fair  share 
and  opportunity.  Creation  is  made  very  big,  you  see,  and 
men  and  women  are  made  without  wings,  and  with  very 
limited  hands  and  feet.  Also  with  limited  lives ;  that 
makes  the  time-question,  and  the  hurry.  There  is  a  sug- 
gestion,—  at  any  rate,  a  necessity, —  in  that.  It  brings  them 
within  certain  spaces,  always.  In  spite  of  all  the  artificial 
lengthening  of  railroads  and  telegraphs,  there  must  still 
be  centres  for  daily  living,  intercourse,  and  need.  People 
tend  to  towns  ;  they  cannot  establish  themselves  in  isolated 
independence.  Yet  packing  and  stifling  are  a  cruelty  and  a 
sin.  I  do  not  believe  there  ought  to  be  any  human  being 
so  poor  as  to  be  forced  to  such  crowding.  The  very  way 
we  are  going  to  live  at  the  Horseshoe,  seems  to  me  an 
individual  solution  of  the  problem.  It  ought  to  come  to 
pass  that  our  towns  should  be  built  —  and  if  built  already, 


294  REAL   FOLKS. 

wrongly,  thinned  out,  —  on  this  principle.  People  are 
coming  to  learn  a  little  of  this,  and  are  opening  parks  and 
squares  in  the  great  cities,  finding  that  there  must  be  room 
for  bodies  and  souls  to  reach  out  and  breathe.  If  they 
could  onlv  take  hold  of  some  of  their  swarmincr-places, 

•/  O    L 

where  disease  and  vice  are  festering,  and  pull  down  every 
second  house  and  turn  it  into  a  garden  space,  I  believe 
they  would  do  more  for  reform  and  salvation  than  all  their 
separate  institutions  for  dealing  with  misery  after  it  is  let 
grow,  can  ever  effect." 

"  O,  why  can't  they?"  cried  Rose.  "  There  is  money 
enough,  somewhere.  Why  can't  they  do  it,  instead  of 
letting  the  cities  grow  horrid,  and  then  running  away  from 
it  themselves,  and  buying  acres  and  acres  around  their 
country  places,  for  fear  somebody  should  come  too  near, 
and  the  country  should  begin  to  grow  horrid  too  ?  " 

"  Because  the  growing  and  the  crowding  and  the  striv- 
ing of  the  city  make  so  much  of  the  money,  little  wife ! 
Because  to  keep  everybody  fairly  comfortable  as  the  world 
goes  along,  there  could  not  be  so  many  separate  piles  laid 
up ;  it  would  have  to  be  used  more  as  it  comes,  and  it 
could  not  come  so  fast.  If  nobody  cared  to  be  very  rich, 
and  all  were  willing  to  live  simply  and  help  one  another, 
in  little  'horseshoe  neighborhoods,'  there  wouldn't  be  so 
much  that  looks  like  grand  achievement  in  the  world  per- 
lliaps ;  but  I  think  maybe  the  very  angels  might  show 
themselves  out  of  the  unseen,  and  bring  the  glory  of  heaven 
into  it ! " 

Kenneth's  color  came,  and  his  eyes  glowed,  as  he  spoke 
these  words  that  burst  into  eloquence  with  the  intensity  of 
his  meaning ;  and  Rosamond's  face  was  holy-pale,  and  her 
look  large,  as  she  listened  ;  and  they  were  silent  for  a  min- 
ute or  so,  as  the  pony,  of  his  own  accord,  trotted  deliber- 
.ately  on. 


THE    HORSESHOE.  295 

"  But  then,  the  beauty,  and  the  leisure,  and  all  that 
grows  out  of  them  to  separate  minds,  and  what  the  world 
gets  through  the  refinement  of  it !  You  see  the  puzzle 
comes  back.  Must  we  never,  in  this  life,  gather  round  us 
the  utmost  that  the  world  is  capable  of  furnishing  ?  Must 
we  never,  out  of  this  big  creation,  have  the  piece  to  our- 
selves, each  one  as  he  would  choose  ?  " 

"  I  think  the  Lord  would  show  us  a  way  out  of  that," 
said  Kenneth.  "  I  think  He  would  make  His  world  turn 
out  right,  and  all  come  to  good  and  sufficient  use,  if  we 
did  not  put  it  in  a  snarl.  Perhaps  we  can  hardly  guess 
what  we  might  grow  to  all  together,  — '  the  whole  body, 
fitly  joined  by  that  which  every  joint  supplieth,  increasing 
and  building  itself  up  in. love.'  And  about  the  quietness, 
and  the  separateness,  —  we  don't  want  to  live  in  that, 
Rose ;  we  only  want  it  sometimes,  to  make  us  fitter  to 
live.  When  the  disciples  began  to  talk  about  building 
tabernacles  on  the  mountain  of  the  vision,  Christ  led 
them  straight  down  among  the  multitude,  where  there 
was  a  devil  to  be  cast  out.  It  is  the  same  thing  in  the 
old  story  of  the  creation.  God  worked  six  days,  and 
rested  one." 

"  Well,"  said  Rose,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  I  am  glad 
we  have  begun  at  the  Horseshoe  !  It  was  a  great  escape 
for  me,  Kenneth.  I  am  such  a  worldly  girl  in  my  heart. 
I  should  have  liked  so  much  to  have  everything  elegant 
and  artistic  about  me." 

"  I  think  you  do.  I  think  you  always  will.  Not  be- 
cause of  the  worldliness  in  you,  though ;  but  the  other- 
worldliness,  the  sense  of  real  beauty  and  truth.  And  I 
am  glad  that  we  have  begun  at  all !  It  was  a  greater  es- 
cape for  me.  I  was  in  danger  of  all  sorts  of  hardness  and 
unbelief.  I  had  begun  to  despise  and  hate  things,  because 


REAL    FOLKS. 

they  did  not  work  rightly  just  around  me.  And  then  I 
fell  in,  just  in  time,  with  some  real,  true  people  ;  and  then 
you  came,  with  the  "  little  piece  of  your  world,"  and  then 
I  came  here,  and  saw  what  your  world  was,  and  how  you 
were  making  it,  Rose  !  How  a  little  community  of  sweet 
and  generous  fellowship  was  crystallizing  here  among  all 
sorts  —  outward  sorts  —  of  people  ;  a  little  community  of 
the  kingdom  ;  and  how  you  and  yours  had  done  it." 

"  O,  Kenneth  !  I  was  the  worst  little  atom  in  the  whole 
crystal !  I  only  got  into  my  place  because  everybody  else 
did,  and  there  was  nothing  else  left  for  me  to  do." 

"  You  see  I  shall  never  believe  that,"  said  Kenneth, 
quietly.  "  There  is  no  flaw  in  the  crystal.  You  were  all 
polarized  alike.  And  besides,  can't  I  see  daily  just  how 
your  nature  draws  and  points  ?  " 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  said  Rose.  "  Only  some  particles 
are  natm*al  magnets,  I  believe,  and  some  get  magnetized 
by  contact.  Now  that  we  have  hit  upon  this  metaphor, 
isn't  it  funny  that  our  little  social  experiment  should  have 
taken  the  shape  of  a  horseshoe  ?  " 

*'  The  most  sociable,  because  the  most  magnetic,  shape 
it  could  take.  You  will  see  the  power  it  will  develop. 
There's  a  great  deal  in  merely  taking  form  according  to 
fundamental  principles.  Witness  the  getting  round  a  fire- 
side. Isn't  that  a  horseshoe  ?  And  could  half  as  much 
sympathy  be  evolved  from  a  straight  line  ?  " 

"  I  believe  in  firesides,"  said  Rose. 

"  And  in  women  who  can  organize  and  inform  them," 
said  Kenneth.  "  First,  firesides  ;  then  neighborhoods  ; 
that  is  the  way  the  world's  life  works  out ;  and  women 
have  their  hands  at  the  heart  of  it.  They  can  do  so  much 
more  there  than  by  making  the  laws  !  When  the  life  is 
right,  the  laws  will  make  themselves,  or  be  no  longer 


THE   HORSESHOE.  297 

needed.  They  are  such  mere  outside  patchwork,  — make- 
shifts till  a  better  time  !  " 

"  Wrong  living  must  make  wrong  laws,  whoever  does 
the  voting,"  said  Rosamond,  sagely. 

"False  social  standards  make  false  commercial  ones; 
inflated  pretensions  demand  inflated  currency ;  selfish,  un- 
true domestic  living  eventuates  in  greedy  speculations  and 
business  shams ;  and  all  in  the  intriguing  for  corrupt  legis- 
lation, to  help  out  partial  interests.  It  isn't  by  multiply- 
ing the  voting  power,  but  by  purifying  it,  that  the  end  is 
to  be  reached." 

"  That  is  so  sententious,  Kenneth,  that  I  shall  have  to 
take  it  home  and  ravel  it  out  gradually  in  my  mind  in  little 
shreds.  In  the  mean  while,  dear,  suppose  we  stop  in  the 
village,  and  get  some  little  brown-ware  cups  for  top-overs. 
You  never  ate  any  of  my  top-overs  ?  Well,  when  you  do, 
you'll  say  that  all  the  world  ought  to  be  brought  up  on 
top-overs." 

Rosamond  was  very  particular  about  her  little  brown- 
ware  cups.  They  had  to  be  real  stone,  —  brown  outside, 
and  gray-blue  in  ;  and  they  must  be  of  a  special  size  and 
depth.  When  they  were  found,  and  done  up  in  a  long 
parcel,  one  within  another,  in  stout  paper,  she  carried 
it  herself  to  the  chaise,  and  would  scarcely  let  Kenneth 
hold  it  while  she  got  in  ;  after  which,  she  laid  it  carefully 
across  her  lap,  instead  of  putting  it  behind  upon  the  cush- 
ion. 

"  You  see  they  were  rather  dear  ;  but  they  are  the  only 
kind  worth  while.  Those  little  yellow  things  would  soak 
and  crack,  and  never  look  comfortable  in  the  kitchen- 
closet.  I  give  you  very  fair  warning,  I  shall  always  want 
the  best  of  things ;  but  then  I  shall  take  very  fierce  and 
jealous  care  of  them,  — like  this." 


298  REAL    FOLKS. 

And  she  laid  her  little  nicely-gloved  hand  across  her 
homely  parcel,  guardingly. 

How  nice  it  was  to  go  buying  little  homely  things  to- 
gether !  Again,  it  was  as  good  and  pleasant,  —  and  meant 
ever  so  much  more,  —  than  if  it  had  been  ordering  china 
with  a  monogram  in  Dresden,  or  glass  in  Prague,  with  a 
coat-of-arms  engraved. 

When  they  drove  up  to  the  Horseshoe,  Dakie  Thayne 
and  Ruth  met  them.  They  had  been  getting  "  spiritual 
ferns  "  and  sumach  leaves  with  Dorris  ;  "  the  dearest  little 
tips,"  Ruth  said,  "  of  scarlet  and  carbuncle,  just  like  jets 
of  fire." 

And  now  they  would  go  back  to  tea,  and  eat  up  the 
brown  cake  ? 

"  Real  Westover  summum-bonum  cake? "  Dakie  wanted 
to  know.  "  Well,  he  couldn't  stand  against  that.  Come, 
Ruthie  !  "  And  Ruthie  came. 

"What  do  you  think  Rosamond  says?"  said  Kenneth, 
at  the  tea-table,  over  the  cake.  "  That  everybody  ought 
to  live  in  a  city  or  a  village,  or,  at  least,  a  Horseshoe. 
She  thinks  nobody  has  a  right  to  stick  his  elbows  out,  in 
this  world.  She 's  in  a  great  hurry  to  be  packed  as  closely 
as  possible  here." 

"  I  wish  the  houses  were  all  finished,  and  our  neighbors 
in  ;  that  is  what  I  said,"  said  Rosamond.  "  I  should  like 
to  begin  to  know  about  them,  and  feel  settled  ;  and  to  see 
flowers  in  their  windows,  and  lights  at  night." 

"And  you  always  hated  so  a  'little  crowd!'"  said 
Ruth. 

"It  isn't  a  crowd  when  they  don't  crowd,"  said  Rosa- 
mond. "  I  can't  bear  little  miserable  jostles." 

"  How  good  it  will  be  to  see  Rosamond  here,  at  the  head 
of  her  court ;  at  the  top  of  the  Horseshoe,"  said  Dakie 


THE   HOESESHOE.  299 

Thayne.  "  She  will  be  quite  the  '  Queen  of  the  Coun- 
ty.' ' 

"  Don't !  "  said  Rosamond.  "  I've  a  very  weak  spot  in 
my  head.  You  can't  tell  the  mischief  you  might  do.  No ; 
I  won't  be  queen  !  " 

"  Any  more  than  you  can  help,"  said  Dakie. 

"  She'll  be  Rosa  Mundi,  wherever  she  is,"  said  Ruth 
affectionately. 

"  I  think  that  is  just  grand  of  Kenneth  and  Rosamond," 
said  Dakie  Thayne,  as  he  and  Ruth  were  walking  home 
up  West  Hill  in  the  moonlight,  afterward.  "  What  do  you 
think  you  and  I  ought  to  do,  one  of  these  days,  Ruthie  ? 
It  sets  me  to  considering.  There  are  more  Horseshoes  to 
make,  I  suppose,  if  the  world  is  to  jog  on." 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  to  consider  about,"  said  Ruth, 
thoughtfully.  "  It  was  quite  easy  for  Kenneth  and  Rosa- 
mond to  see  what  they  ought  to  do.  But  you  might 
make  a  great  many  Horseshoes,  —  or  something !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  second  person  plural,  eh  ? 
Are  you  shirking  your  responsibilities,  or  are  you  address- 
ing your  imaginary  Boffinses  ?  Come,  Ruthie,  I  can't 
have  that !  Say  '  we,'  and  I'll  face  the  responsibilities  and 
talk  it  all  out ;  but  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 
« you  !  '  " 

"  Won't  you  ?  "  said  Ruth,  with  piteous  demureness. 
"  How  can  I  say  '  we,'  then  ?  " 

"  You  little  cat !     How  you  can  scratch  !  " 

"  There  are  such  great  things  to  be  done  in  the  world, 
Dakie,"  Ruth  said  seriously,  when  they  had  got  over  that 
with  a  laugh  that  lifted  her  nicely  by  the  "  we  "  question. 
"  I  can't  help  thinking  of  it." 

"  O,  "  said  Dakie,  with  significant  satisfaction.  "  We're 
getting  on  better.  Well  ?  " 


300  REAL    FOLKS. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Hazel  Ripwinkley  is  doing?  And 
what  Luclarion  Grapp  has  done  ?  Do  you  know  how  they 
are  going  among  poor  people,  in  dreadful  places,  —  really 
living  among  them,  Luclarion  is,  —  and  finding  out,  and 
helping,  and  showing  how  ?  I  thought  of  that  to-night, 
when  they  talked  about  living  in  cities  and  villages.  Lu- 
clarion has  gone  away  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  it. 
And  somehow,  one  can't  feel  satisfied  with  only  reaching 
half  way,  when  one  knows  —  and  might !  " 

"  Do  you  mean,  Ruthie,  that  you  and  I  might  go  and 
live  in  such  places  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  take  you 
there?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Dakie,"  Ruth  answered,  forgetting  in 
her  earnestness,  to  blush  or  hesitate  for  what  he  said  ;  — 
"  but  I  feel  as  if  we  ought  to  reach  down,  somehow,  — 
away  down  !  Because  that,  you  see,  is  the  most.  And  to 
do  only  a  little,  in  an  easy  way,  when  we  are  made  so 
strong  to  do  ;  wouldn't  it  be  a  waste  of  power,  and  a 
missing  of  the  meaning  ?  Isn't  it  the  '  much  '  that  is  re- 
quired of  us,  Dakie  ?  " 

They  were  under  the  tall  hedge  of  the  Holabird  "  par- 
cel of  ground,"  on  the  Westover  slope,  and  close  to  the 
home  gates.  Dakie  Thayne  put  his  arm  round  Ruth  as 
she  said  that,  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  We  will  go  and  be  neighbors  somewhere,  Ruthie. 
And  we  will  make  as  big  a  Horseshoe  as  we  can." 


MORNING  GLORIES.  301 

XXII. 

MORNING   GLORIES. 

A  ND  Desire  ? 

••£*<  Do  you  tliink  I  have  passed  her  over  lightly  in  her 
troubles  ?  Or  do  you  think  I  am  making  her  out  to  have 
herself  passed  over  them  lightly  ? 

Do  you  think  it  is  hardly  to  be  believed  that  she  should 
have  turned  round  from  these  shocks  and  pains  that  bore 
down  so  heavily  and  all  at  once  upon  her,  and  taken  kindly 
to  the  living  with  old  Uncle  Titus  and  Rachel  Froke  in 
the  Greenley  Street  house,  and  going  down  to  Luclarion 
Grapp's  to  help  wash  little  children's  faces,  and  teach  them 
how  to  have  innocent  good  times  ?  Do  you  think  there  is 
little  making  up  in  all  that  for  her,  while  Rosamond  Kin- 
caid  is  happy  in  her  new  home,  and  Ruth  and  Dakie 
Thayne  are  looking  out  together  over  the  world,  —  which 
can  be  nowhere  wholly  sad  to  them,  since  they  are  to  go 
down  into  it  together,  —  and  planning  how  to  make  long 
arms  with  their  wealth,  to  reach  the  largest  neighborhood 
they  can  ?  In  the  first  place,  do  you  know  how  full  the 
world  is,  all  around  you,  of  things  that  are  missed  by  those 
who  say  nothing,  but  go  on  living  somehow  without  them  ? 
Do  you  know  how  large  a  part  of  life,  even  young  life,  is 
made  of  the  days  that  have  never  been  lived  ?  Do  you 
guess  how  many  girls,  like  Desire,  come  near  something 
that  they  think  they  might  have  had,  and  then  see  it  drift 
by,  just  beyond  their  reach,  to  fall  easily  into  some  other 
hand  that  seems  hardly  put  out  to  grasp  it  ? 

And  do  you  see,  or  feel,  or  guess  how  life  goes  on,  in- 


302  REAL    FOLKS. 

completeness  and  all,  and  things  settle  themselves  one  way, 
if  not  another,  simply  because  the  world  does  not  stop,  but 
keeps  turning,  and  tossing  off  days  and  nights  like  time- 
bubbles  just  the  same  ? 

Do  you  ever  imagine  how  different  this  winter's  parties 
are  from  last,  or  this  summer's  visit  or  journey  from  those 
of  the  summer  gone,  —  to  many  a  maiden  who  has  her 
wardrobe  made  up  all  the  same,  and  takes  her  German  or 
her  music  lessons,  and  goes  in  and  out,  and  has  her  ticket 
to  the  Symphony  Concerts,  and  is  no  different  to  look  at, 
unless  perhaps  with  a  little  of  the  first  color-freshness  gone 
out  of  her  face,  —  while  secretly  it  seems  to  her  as  if  the 
sweet  early  symphony  of  her  life  were  all  played  out,  and 
had  ended  in  a  discord  ? 

We  begin,  most  of  us,  much  as  we  are  to  go  on.  Real 
or  mistaken,  the  experiences  of  eighteen  initiate  the  lesson 
that  those  of  two  and  three  score  after  years  are  needed 
to  unfold  and  complete.  What  is  left  of  us  is  continually 
turning  round,  perforce,  to  take  up  with  what  is  left  of  the 
world,  and  make  the  best  of  it. 

Thus  much  for  what  does  happen,  for  what  we  have 
to  put  up  with,  for  the  mere  philosophy  of  endurance,  and 
the  possibility  of  things  being  endured.  We  do  live  out 
our  years,  and  get  and  bear  it  all.  And  the  scars  do  not 
show  much  outside  ;  nay,  even  we  ourselves  can  lay  a 
finger  on  the  place,  after  a  little  time,  without  a  cringe. 

Desire  Ledwith  did  what  she  had  to  do  ;  there  was  a 
way  made  for  her,  and  there  was  still  life  left. 

But  there  is  a  better  reading  of  the  riddle.  There  is 
never  a  "  Might-have-been  "  that  touches  with  a  sting,  but 
reveals  also  to  us  an  inner  glimpse  of  the  wide  and  beau- 
tiful "  May  Be."  It  is  all  there  ;  somebody  else  has  it  now, 
while  we  wait ;  but  the  years  of  God  are  full  of  satisfying ; 


MORNING   GLORIES.  303 

each  soul  shall  have  its  turn  ;  it  is  His  good  pleasure  to 
give  us  the  kingdom.  There  is  so  much  room,  there 
are  such  thronging  possibilities,  there  is  such  endless 
hope  ! 

To  feel  this,  one  must  feel,  however  dimly,  the  inner 
realm,  out  of  which  the  shadows  of  this  life  come  and  pass, 
to  interpret  to  us  the  laid  up  reality. 

"  The  real  world  is  the  inside  world." 

Desire  Ledwith  blessed  Uncle  Oldways  in  her  heart 
for  giving  her  that  word. 

It  comforted  her  for  her  father.  If  his  life  here  had 
been  hard,  toilsome,  mistaken  even  ;  if  it  had  never  come 
to  that  it  might  have  come  to  ;  if  she,  his  own  child,  had 
somehow  missed  the  reality  of  him  here,  and  he  of  her,  — 
was  he  not  passed  now  into  the  within  ?  Might  she  not 
find  him  there  ;  might  they  not  silently  and  spiritually, 
without  sign,  but  needing  no  sign,  begin  to  understand 
each  other  now  ?  Was  not  the  real  family  just  beginning 
to  be  born  into  the  real  home  ? 

Ah,  that  word  real !  How  deep  we  have  to  go  to  find 
the  root  of  it !  It  is  fast  by  the  throne  of  God  ;  in  the 
midst. 

Hazel  Ripwinkley  talked  about  "  real  folks."  She  sifted, 
and  she  found  out  instinctively  the  true  livers,  the  gen- 
uine neahburs,  nigh-dwellers  ;  they  who  abide  alongside 
in  spirit,  who  shall  find  each  other  in  the  everlasting 
neighborhood,  when  the  veil  falls. 

But  there,  behind,  —  how  little,  in  our  petty  outside 
vexations  or  gladnesses,  we  stop  to  think  of  or  perceive  it ! 
—  is  the  actual,  even  the  present,  inhabiting ;  there  is  the 
kingdom,  the  continuing  city,  the  real  heaven  and  earth 
in  which  we  already  live  and  labor,  and  build  up  our 
homes  and  lay  up  our  treasure ;  and  the  loving  Christ, 


304  REAL  FOLKS. 

and  the  living  Father,  and  the  innumerable  company  of 
angels,  and  the  unseen  compassing  about  of  friends  gone 
in  there,  and  they  on  this  earth  who  truly  belong  to  us 
inwardly,  however  we  and  they  may  be  bodily  separated, 
—  are  the  Real  Folks  ! 

What  matters  a  little  pain,  outside  ?  Go  in,  and  rest 
from  it ! 

There  is  where  the  joy  is,  that  we  read  outwardly,  spell- 
ing by  parts  imperfectly,  in  our  own  and  others'  mortal  ex- 
perience ;  there  is  the  content  of  homes,  the  beauty  of 
love,  the  delight  of  friendship,  — not  shut  in  to  any  one  or 
two,  but  making  the  common  air  that  all  souls  breathe. 
No  one  heart  can  be  happy,  that  all  hearts  may  not  have  a 
share  of  it.  Rosamond  and  Kenneth,  Dakie  and  Ruth, 
cannot  live  out  obviously  any  sweetness  of  living,  cannot 
sing  any  notes  of  the  endless,  beautiful  score,  that  De- 
sire Ledwith,  and  Luclarion  Grapp,  and  Rachel  Froke, 
and  Hapsie  Craydocke,  and  old  Miss  Arabel  Waite,  do 
not  just  as  truly  get  the  blessed  grace  and  understanding 
of;  do  not  catch  and  feel  the  perfect  and  abounding  har- 
mony of.  Since  why  ?  No  lip  can  sound  more  than  its 
own  few  syllables  of  music ;  no  life  show  more  than  its 
own  few  accidents  and  incidents  and  groupings ;  the  vast 
melody,  the  rich,  eternal  satisfying,  are  behind  ;  and  the 
signs  are  for  us  all ! 

You  may  not  think  this,  or  see  it  so,  in  your  first  tussle 
and  set-to  with  the  disappointing  and  eluding  things  that 
seem  the  real  and  only,  —  missing  which  you  miss  all. 
This  chapter  may  be  less  to  you  —  less  for  you,  perhaps  — 
than  for  your  elders  ;  the  story  may  have  ended,  as  to  that 
you  care  for,  some  pages  back ;  but  for  all  that,  this  is  cer- 
tain ;  and  Desire  Ledwith  has  begun  to  find  it,  for  she  is 
one  of  those  true,  grand  spirits  to  whom  personal  loss  or 


MORNING   GLORIES.  305 

frustration  are  most  painful  as  they  seem  to  betoken  some- 
thing wrong  or  failed  in  the  general  scheme  and  justice. 
This  terrible  "  why  should  it  be  ?  "  once  answered,  — 
once  able  to  say  to  themselves  quietly,  "It  is  all  right; 
the  beauty  and  the  joy  are  there  ;  the  song  is  sung,  though 
we  are  of  the  listeners  ;  the  miracle -play  is  played,  though 
but  a  few  take  literal  part,  and  many  of  us  look  on,  with 
the  play,  like  the  song,  moving  through  our  souls  only,  or 
our  souls  moving  in  the  vital  sphere  of  it,  where  the  stage 
is  wide  enough  for  all ;  "  —  once  come  to  this,  they  have 
entered  already  into  that  which  is  behind,  and  nothing  of 
all  that  goes  forth  thence  into  the  earth  to  make  its  sun- 
shine can  be  shut  off  from  them  forever. 

Desire  is  learning  to  be  glad,  thinking  of  Kenneth  and 
Rosamond,  that  this  fair  marriage  should  have  been.  It  is 
so  just  and  exactly  best ;  Rosamond's  sweet  graciousness  is 
so  precisely  what  Kenneth's  sterner  way  needed  to  have 
shine  upon  it ;  her  finding  and  making  of  all  manner  of 
pleasantness  will  be  so  good  against  his  sharp  discernment 
of  the  wrong ;  they  will  so  beautifully  temper  and  sustain 
each  other  ! 

Desire  is  so  generous,  so  glad  of  the  truth,  that  she  can 
stand  aside,  and  let  this  better  thing  be,  and  say  to  herself 
that  it  is  better. 

Is  not  this  that  she  is  growing  to  inwardly,  more  blessed 
than  any  marriage  or  giving  in  marriage  ?  Is  it  not  a  par- 
taking of  the  heavenly  Marriage  Supper  ? 

"  We  two  might  have  grumbled  at  the  world  until  we 
grumbled  at  each  other." 

O 

She  even  said  that,  calmly  and  plainly,  to  herself. 

And  then  that  manna  was  fed  to  her  afresh  of  which 
she  had  been  given  first  to  eat  so  long  a  while  ago  ;  that 
thought  of  "  the  Lamb  in  the  midst  of  the  Throne  "  came 


•JO 


REAL    FOLKS. 

back  to  her.  Of  the  Tenderness  deep  within  the  Al- 
mightiness  that  holds  all  earth  and  heaven  and  time  and 
circumstance  in  its  grasp.  Her  little,  young,  ignorant 
human  heart  begins  to  rest  in  that  great  warmth  and 
gentleness  ;  begins  to  be  glad  to  wait  there  for  what  shall 
arise  out  of  it,  moving  the  Almightiness  for  her,  —  even 
on  purpose  for  her,  —  in  the  by-and-by ;  she  begins  to  be 
sure  ;  of  what,  she  knows  not,  —  but  of  a  great,  blessed, 
beautiful  something,  that  just  because  she  is  at  all,  shall  be 
for  her ;  that  she  shall  have  a  part,  somehow,  even  in  the 
showing  of  His  good ;  that  into  the  beautiful  miracle-play 
she  shall  be  called,  and  a  new  song  be  given  her,  also, 
to  sing  in  the  grand,  long,  perfect  oratorio ;  she  begins 
to  pray  quietly,  that,  "  loving  the  Lord,  always  above  all 
things,  she  may  obtain  His  promises,  which  exceed  all 
that  she  can  desire." 

And  waiting,  resting,  believing,  she  begins  also  to  work. 
This  beginning  is  even  as  an  ending  and  forehaving,  to 
any  human  soul. 

I  will  tell  you  how  she  woke  one  morning ;  of  a  little 
poem  that  wrote  itself  along  her  chamber  wall. 

It  was  a  square,  pleasant  old  room,  with  a  window  in 
an  angle  toward  the  east.  A  great,  old-fashioned  mirror 
hung  opposite,  between  the  windows  that  looked  out  north- 
westwardly ;  the  morning  and  the  evening  light  came  in 
upon  her.  Beside  the  solid,  quaint  old  furnishings  of  a 
long  past  time,  there  were  also  around  her  the  things  she 
had  been  used  to  at  home  ;  her  own  little  old  rocking- 
chair,  her  desk  and  table,  and  her  toilet  and  mantel  orna- 
ments and  things  of  use.  A  pair  of  candle-branches  with 
dropping  lustres,  —  that  she  had  marveled  at  and  delighted 
in  as  a  child,  and  had  begged  for  herself  when  they  fell  into 
disuse  in  the  drawing-room,  —  stood  upon  the  chimney, 


MORNING   GLORIES.  307 

along  which  the  first  sun-rays  glanced.  Just  in  those  days 
of  the  year,  they  struck  in  so  as  to  shine  level  through  the 
clear  prisms,  and  break  into  a  hundred  little  rainbows. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  this  fair  October  morning,  and  lay 
and  looked  at  the  little  scattered  glories. 

O 

All  around  the  room,  on  walls,  curtains,  ceiling,  —  fall- 
ing like  bright  soft  jewels  upon  table  and  floor,  touching 
everything  with  a  magic  splendor, — were  globes  and 
shafts  of  colored  light.  Softly  blended  from  glowing  red 
to  tenderly  fervid  blue,  they  lay  in  various  forms  and  frag- 
ments, as  the  beam  refracted  or  the  objects  caught  them. 

Just  on  the  edge  of  the  deep,  opposite  window-frame, 
clung  one  vivid,  separate  flash  of  perfect  azure,  all  alone, 
and  farthest  off  of  all. 

Desire  wondered,  at  first  glance,  how  it  should  happen  ; 
till  she  saw,  against  a  closet-door  ajar,  a  gibbous  sphere  of 
red  and  golden  flame.  Yards  apart  the  points  were,  and 
a  shadow  lay  between ;  but  the  one  sure  sunbeam  knew  no 
distance,  and  there  was  no  radiant  line  of  the  spectrum 
lost. 

Desire  remembered  her  old  comparison  of  complement- 
ary colors :  "  to  see  blue,  and  to  live  red,"  she  had  said, 
complaining. 

But  now  she  thought,  —  "  Foreshortening  !  In  so  many 
things,  that  is  all,  —  if  we  could  only  see  as  the  Sun 
sees  !  " 

One  bit  of  our  living,  by  itself,  all  one  deep,  burning, 
bleeding  color,  maybe  ;  but  the  globe  is  white,  —  the  blue 
is  somewhere.  And,  lo  !  a  soft,  still  motion  ;  a  little  of 
the  flame-tint  has  dropped  off ;  it  has  leaped  to  join  itself 
to  the  blue  ;  it  gives  itself  over  ;  and  they  are  beautiful  to- 
gether,—  they  fulfill  each  other;  yet,  in  the  changing 
never  a  thread  falls  quite  away  into  the  dark.  Why,  it  is 
like  love  joining  itself  to  love  again  ! 


308  REAL    FOLKS. 

As  God's  sun  climbs  the  horizon,  His  steadfast,  gracious 
purpose,  striking  into  earthly  conditions,  seems  to  break, 
and  scatter,  and  divide.  Half  our  heart  is  here,  half 
there  ;  our  need  and  ache  are  severed  from  their  help  and 
answer  ;  the  tender  blue  waits  far  off  for  the  eager,  asking 
red;  yet  just  as  surely  as  His  light  shines  on,  and  our  life 
moves  under  it,  so  surely,  across  whatever  gulf,  the  beauty 
shall  all  be  one  again  ;  so  surely  does  it  even  now  move  all 
together,  perfect  and  close  always  under  His  eye,  who 
never  sends  a  half  ray  anywhere. 

She  read  her  little  poem,  —  sent  to  her ;  she  read  it 
through.  She  rose  up  glad  and  strong ;  her  room  was  full 
of  glorious  sunshine  now  ;  the  broken  bits  of  color  were 
all  taken  up  in  one  full  pouring  of  the  day. 

She  went  down  with  the  light  of  it  in  her  heart,  and  all 
about  her. 

Uncle  Oldways  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the  wide  stair- 
case. "Good-day,  child!  "  he  said  to  her  in  his  quaint 
fashion.  "  Why  it  is  good  day  !  Your  face  shines." 

"  You  have  given  me  a  beautiful  east  window,  uncle," 
said  Desire,  "  and  the  morning  has  come  in  !  " 

And  from  the  second  step,  where  she  still  stood,  she 
bent  forward  a  little,  put  her  hands  softly  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, and  for  the  first  time,  kissed  his  cheek. 


